Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/goetheshermanndoOOgoet_0 


4 


GOETHE’S 


HERMANN  AND  DOROTHEA. 


i 


GOETHE'S 


HERMANN  AND  DOROTHEA. 


TRANSLATED 

]!Y 


REV.  HENRY  DALE,  m.  a. 

FORMERLY  BRITISPI  CHAPLAIN  AT  DRESDEN. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


WILLIAM  KAULBACH  and  L.  HOFMANN. 


NEW  YOEK 


STROn^^'ER  &  KIRCIINER. 


Munich.  F.  Straub  printer  to  the  royal  Academy. 


FORTUNE  AND  LOT. 

“Never  before  have  I  seen  our  market  and  streets  so  deserted! 
Truly  the  town  is  as  though  ’twere  swept  out,  or  dead;  for  not  fifty 
Still  are  remaining  behind,  methinks,  of  our  whole  population. 

What  will  not  curiosity  do?  Thus  runneth  and  rusheth 
Each  one  now  to  see  the  train  of  the  poor  wretched  exiles. 

Up  to  the  causeway  on  which  they  travel  is  nigh  an  hour’s  journey: 
Still  runs  thither  the  crowd  in  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  midday. 

Yet  should  not  I  like  to  stir  from  my  place,  to  see  wTat  affliction 
Good  men  suffer  in  flight,  who  now,  with  their  rescued  possessions, 

I  .eaving,  alas !  the  Rhine’s  charming  bank,  that  country  of  beauty. 
Come  over  here  to  us,  and  wander  along  through  the  windings 
Of  this  fruitful  vale,  a  nook  by  fortune  most  favour’d. 

Nobly,  Wife,  hast  thou  done,  in  sending  our  son  on  kind  errand. 
Bearing  with  him  old  linen  and  something  for  eating  and  drinking. 


1 


All  to  dispense  to  the  poor;  for  to  give  is  the  rich  man’s  first  duty. 

Oh,  what  a  pace  the  boy  drove!  and  how  he  managed  the  horses! 

Aye,  and  took  for  himself  our  carriage,  —  the  new  one;  four  persons 
Sit  with  comfort  inside,  and  out  on  the  dickey  the  driver: 

But  all  alone  went  he  now,  and  how  lightly  it  roll’d  round  the  corner!” 
Sitting  at  ease  beneath  the  gate  of  his  house  in  the  market. 

Thus,  address’d  his  wife,  the  host  of  the  Golden  Lion. 

Then  made  answer  to  him  the  prudent  and  sensible  housewife : 
“Father,  not  willing  am  I  to  part  with  my  linen,  though  worn  out; 

For  it  is  useful  for  much,  and  not  to  be  purchas’d  with  money. 

If  one  should  need  its  use.  Yet  to-day  I  gave,  aye  and  gladly, 

Many  a  better  piece,  made  up  for  chemises  and  covers. 

Since  I  heard  of  old  people  and  children  going  there  naked. 

But  wilt  thou  pardon  me  now?  for  thjj  chest,  too,  has  been  rifled. 

And,  above  all,  I  gmve  the  dressing-gown,  —  finest  of  cotton. 

Bright  with  Indian  flowers,  and  lined  with  the  finest  of  flannel: 

But  it  was  thin,  you  know,  and  old,  and  quite  out  of  fashion.” 

But  upon  that,  with  a  smile,  out  spake  the  excellent  landlord: 

“Still  am  I  sorry  to  lose  it,  —  the  old  gown  made  of  good  cotton,  — 
Real  East-Indian  stuff  —  one  will  not  get  such  another. 

Well!  I  wore  it  no  more;  for  a  man  (so  the  world  will  now  have  it) 
Must  at  all  hour.s  of  the  day  in  frock  or  dress-coat  exhibit. 

And  ever  booted  be;  both  slippers  and  caps  are  forbidden.” 

“Look!”  replied  the  good  wite,  “there  are  some  already  returning, 
Who  with  the  rest  saw  the  train;  yet  surely  it  now  must  have  pass’d  by. 
See  how  dusty  are  all  their  shoes,  how  glowin*^  their  faces! 

And  with  his  handkerchief  each  wipes  off  the  sweat  from  his  forehead. 


Never  may  I  in  the  heat,  for  such  a  spectacle,  so  far 
Run  and  suffer!  In  truth  the  7'ecital  I  find  quite  sufficient.” 

Then  observ’d  the  good  father,  in  tones  of  great  animation; 

“Seldom  hath  such  weather  for  such  a  harvest  been  granted; 

And  we  are  getting  in  the  fruit,  as  the  hay’s  in  already 
Dry;  —  the  sky  is  clear,  no  cloud  can  be  seen  in  the  heavens. 

And  from  the  East  the  wind  is  blowing  with  loveliest  coolness: 

This  is  indeed  settled  weather!  the  corn  over-ripe  is  already. 

And  we  begin  to-morrow  to  cut  down  the  glorious  harvest.” 

Whilst  he  thus  spake,  still  swell’d  the  troops  of  men  and  of  women. 

Who  through  the  market-square  to  their  homes  were  now  seen  returning. 

And  thus,  too,  at  full  speed  returning  along  with  his  daughters. 

Came  to  the  other  side  of  the  square,  where  his  new  house  was  standing. 

Riding  in  open  carriage  of  handsomest  landau  pattern. 

Richest  amongst  his  neighbours,  the  foremost  of  all  the  town’s  merchants. 

Lively  grew  the  streets;  for  the  place  was  well  peopled,  and  in  it 
Many  a  factory  work’d,  and  many  a  business  was  thriving. 

Thus,  then,  under  the  gateway  still  sat  the  couple  familiar. 

And  in  many  remarks  on  the  passing  crowd  found  amusement. 

But  the  worth)'  housewife  at  length  spoke  out,  thus  commencing: 

“See !  there  comes  the  \hcar,  and  there,  too,  our  neighbour  the  Druggist, 

Coming  along  with  him:  a  full  account  they  shall  give  us. 

What  they  have  seen  out  yonder,  and  what  gives  no  pleasure  to  look  on.” 

Friendly  they  both  came  on,  and  greeted  the  good  married  couple. 

Seated  themselves  on  the  benches,  —  the  wooden  ones  under  the  gateway,  - — ■ 
Shook  off  the  dust  from  their  feet,  and  fann’d  for  a  breeze  with  their  ’kerchiefs. 


Then  the  Druggist  first,  after  many  mutual  greetings, 

Thus  began  to  speak,  and  said  in  a  tone  almost  fretful: 

“So  is  it  ever  with  men!  and  one  is  still  just  like  the  other. 

In  that  he  loves  to  stare,  when  mistortune  befalleth  his  neighbour  I 
Each  one  runs  to  behold  the  flames  breaking  out  with  destruction. 

Each  the  poor  criminal  marks  who  is  dragg’d  to  a  death  of  keen  torture; 
Each  one  is  walking  out  now  to  gaze  on  the  w'oes  of  the  exiles. 

No  one  thinking  meanwhile,  that  himself  by  a  similar  fortune. 

If  not  next,  yet  at  least  in  the  course  of  time  may  be  stricken. 

Levity  such  as  this  I  pardon  not;  yet  man  displays  it.” 


Then  observ’d  in  reply  the  honour’d  intelligent  Vicar,  — 

He  the  pride  of  the  town,  still  young  in  his  earliest  manhood. 

He  was  acquainted  with  life,  and  knew  the  wants  of  his  hearers. 

Thoroughly  was  he  impress’d  with  the  value  supreme  of  the  Scriptures, 
Which  man’s  destiny  to  him  reveal,  and  what  feelings  best  suit  it; 

While  he  was  also  well  vers’d  in  the  best  of  secular  writings, 
hie,  then,  said:  “I  am  loath  to  find  fault  with  an  innocent  instinct. 

Which  hath  at  all  times  been  given  to  man  by  good  Mother  Nature. 

Eor,  what  prudence  and  sense  cannot  always  do,  may  be  often 
Done  by  such  fortunate  impulse  as  irresistibly  guides  us. 

Were  not  man  strongly  induced  by  curiosity’s  ardour. 

Say,  would  he  ever  have  learnt,  how  natural  things  hold  together 
In  such  lovely  connexion?  Eor,  first,  he  craved  what  was  novel. 

Then  with  unwearied  pains  continued  his  search  for  the  useful. 

Longing  at  last  lor  the  good,  which  exalts  him,  and  gives  him  new  value. 

Levity  in  his  youth  is  his  gladsome  companion,  to  danger 

Ever  shutting  his  eyes,  and  the  traces  of  pain  and  of  evil 

Blotting  with  wholesome  speed,  so  soon  as  their  forms  have  past  by  him. 

Iruly  may  that  man  be  prais’d,  in  whose  riper  years  is  develop’d 


Out  of  such  jovial  temper  the  steady  and  strong  understanding, 

Which  in  joy  or  in  sorrow  exerts  itself,  zealous  and  active ; 

For  he  will  bring  forth  good,  and  atone  for  each  hour  he  has  wasted.” 


Suddenly  then  began  the  hostess,  with  friendly  impatience: 

“Tell  us  what  you  have  seen;  for  that’s  what  I  wish  to  be  hearing.” 

“Hardly”,  replied  thereupon  the  Druggist,  with  emphasis  speaking, 

“Shall  I  in  short  space  again  feel  happy  since  all  I  have  witness’d. 

Who  could  describe  it  aright,  —  that  manifold  scene  of  disaster? 

Clouds  of  dust  from  afar,  ere  yet  we  came  down  to  the  meadows. 

Saw  we  at  once ;  though  the  train,  from  hill  to  hill  as  it  progress’d. 

Still  was  hid  from  our  sight,  and  we  could  but  little  distinguish. 

But  when  we  reach’d  the  road  which  goes  across  through  tlie  valley. 

Truly,  great  was  the  crowding  and  din  of  the  travellers’  waggons. 

Ah!  we  saw  then  enough  of  the  poor  men,  while  they  pass’d  by  us, 

And  could  but  learn,  how  bitter  is  flight,  with  such  sorrows  attended. 

And  yet  how  joyous  the  sense  of  life,  when  hastily  rescued. 

Piteous  was  it  to  see  the  goods  of  ev’ry  description, 

AVhich  the  well-furnish’d  house  contains,  and  which  a  good  landlord 
In  it  has  placed  about,  each  thing  in  its  proper  position. 

Always  ready  for  use  (for  all  things  are  needed  and  useful). 

Now  to  see  all  these  loaded  on  waggons  and  carts  ot  all  fashions. 

One  thing  thrust  through  another,  in  over-haste  of  removal. 

Over  the  chest  there  lay  the  sieve,  and  the  good  woollen  blankets, 

In  the  kneading-  trough  the  bed,  and  the  sheets  o’er  the  mirror. 

Ah!  and,  as  at  the  fire  twenty  years  ago  we  all  noticed. 

Danger  took  from  man  altogether  his  powers  of  reflection. 

So  that  he  seiz’d  what  was  paltry,  and  left  what  was  precious  behind  him. 
Just  so  in  this  case,  too,  with  a  carefulness  lacking  discretion. 


5 


Worthless  things  took  they  on,  to  burden  their  oxen  and  horses, 

Such  as  old  boards  and  casks,  the  goose-coop,  and  with  it  the  birdcage. 
Women  and  children,  too,  gasp’d,  as  they  dragg’d  along  with  their  bundles^ 
Under  baskets  and  tubs  till’d  with  things  of  no  use  to  their  owners: 

Since  man  is  still  unwilling  the  last  of  his  goods  to  abandon. 

Thus  on  the  dusty  road  the  crowding  train  travel’d  onward. 

Orderless  and  confus’d,  with  ill-match’d  pairs  of  faint  horses, 

One  of  which  wish’d  to  go  slow,  while  the  other  was  eager  to  hasten. 

Then  there  arose  the  cry  of  the  squeez’d-up  women  and  children, 

Mix’d  with  the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  dogs  all  barking  in  chorus. 

And  with  the  wail  of  the  aged  and  sick,  all  seated  and  swa}’ing 
High  aloft  upon  beds  on  the  hard  and  over-pack’d  waggons. 

But,  driven  out  of  the  rut,  to  the  very  edge  of  the  highway, 

WMnder’d  a  creaking  wheel;  —  upsetting,  the  vehicle  roll’d  down 
Into  the  ditch,  with  the  swing  its  human  freight  quick  discharging 
Far  in  the  field,  —  with  dire  screams,  but  yet  with  fortunate  issue. 

After  them  tumbled  the  chests,  and  fell  bv  the  side  of  the  wa2'L»‘on. 

Truly,  he  who  saw  them  in  falling,  expected  to  find  them 
Crush’d  and  shatter’d  beneath  the  load  of  the  boxes  and  cupboards. 

Thus,  then,  they  lay,  —  the  waggon  all  broken,  the  people  all  helpless  — 
For  the  others  went  on,  and  with  speed  drew  past,  each  one  thinking 
Only  about  himself,  while  the  stream  still  hurried  him  forward. 

Then  did  we  hasten  to  them,  and  found  the  sick  and  the  ac>-ed 
Who,  when  at  home  and  in  bed,  scarce  bore  their  continual  sufferino-s 
And  now  injured  here  on  the  ground  lay  moaning  and  groaning. 

Scorch’d  at  once  by  the  sun,  and  chok’d  by  the  dust  thickly  waving.” 


Moved  by  the  tale,  thereupon  replied  the  humane-hearted  landlord; 
“O  that  Hermann  may  find  them,  to  give  both  comfort  and  clothino-! 
Loath  should  I  be  to  see  them;  the  sight  of  misery  pains  me; 


Though,  deeply  moved  by  the  first  report  of  such  a  disaster, 

Sent  we  in  haste  a  mite  from  our  superfluity,  so  that 

Some  might  be  strengthen’d  therewith,  and  we  feel  our  hearts  the  more  tranquil. 
But  let  us  now  no  more  renew  these  pictures  of  sorrow. 

Quickly  into  the  hearts  of  men  steals  fear  of  the  future. 

And  dull  care,  which  by  me  than  evil  itself  is  more  hated. 

Step  now  into  our  room  at  the  back  • —  our  cool  little  parlour. 

Ne’er  shines  the  sun  therein;  ne’er  forces  the  warm  air  a  passage 
Through  the  thickly  built  walls.  And,  Mother  dear,  bring  us  a  wee  glass 
Of  the  good  Eighty-three,  to  drive  far  away  all  bad  fancies. 

Here  there  ’s  no  pleasure  in  drinking;  the  flies  so  buzz  round  the  glasses.” 

Thus  they  all  went  in,  and  enjoyment  found  in  the  coolness. 


Carefully  brought  the  good  Mother  some  wine  of  glorious  brightness. 
In  well-cut  decanters  on  tray  of  tin  brightly  varnish’d. 

With  the  light-green  rummers,  the  genuine  goblets  for  Rhine-wine. 

And  thus  sitting,  the  three  surrounded  the  high-polish’d  table. 

Round  and  brown,  which  stood  upon  feet  so  strong  and  so  steady. 

Merrily  soon  rang  the  glass  of  the  Host  on  that  of  the  Vicar; 

But  the  Druggist  held  his  unmov’d,  in  deep  meditation; 

Whom  with  friendly  words  the  host  thus  challeng’d  to  join  them: 


“Drink  and  be  merry,  good  neighbour;  for  God  from  misfortune  hath  saved  us. 
And,  of  His  goodness,  will  still  continue  to  save  us  in  future. 

Who  can  fail  to  acknowledge,  that  since  the  dread  conflagration. 

When  He  chasten’d  us  sore.  He  hath  ever  constantly  bless’d  us; 

Aye,  and  constantly  guarded,  as  man  doth  gmard  his  eye’s  apple. 

Keeping  with  greatest  care  what  of  all  his  members  is  dearest? 

Should  He  not,  then,  continue  to  guard  and  help  us  still  further? 

Truly,  how  great  is  His  power,  then  only  man  sees,  when  in  danger. 


Should,  then,  this  flourishing  town,  which  He,  through  its  diligent  burghers, 
First  from  its  ashes  anew  built  up,  and  tlien  loaded  with  blessings. 

Now  again  be  destroy’d  by  Him,  and  our  pains  brought  to  nothing?” 

Cheerfully  then  and  gently  replied  the  excellent  Vicar: 

“Hold  ye  fast  this  faith,  and  hold  ye  fast  this  conviction! 

For  it  will  make  you  in  joy  both  steadfast  and  sure,  and  in  sorrow 
Sweet  is  the  comfort  it  yields,  and  glorious  the  hope  it  enlivens.” 

Then  replied  the  Host,  with  thoughts  judicious  and  manly: 

“How  have  I  greeted  full  oft  with  wonder  the  swell  of  the  Rhine-flood, 
VTen,  in  my  business-journeys  engag-ed,  once  more  I  approach’d  it! 
Grander  it  always  seem’d,  and  exalted  my  thoug-hts  and  my  spirits : 

But  I  could  never  think  that  his  bank,  in  loveliness  smiling. 

Soon  should  prove  a  rampart  to  guard  off  Frankish  invasion. 

Thus  cloth  nature  guard  us,  thus  guard  us  our  brave-hearted  Germans, 
Thus  the  Lord  Himself:  who,  then,  would  lose  heart,  like  a  dotard? 

1  ired  are  the  combatants  now,  and  to  peace  is  ev'ry  thing  pointing. 

And  wdien  the  feast  long  wish’d  for  within  our  Church  shall  be  holden. 
And  the  bells’  solemn  peal  shall  reply  to  the  swell  of  the  organ. 

Mix’d  with  the  trumpet’s  sound  keeping  time  with  the  soaring  Te  Deum ; 
Then  may  our  Hermann,  too,  on  that  day  of  rejoicing.  Sir  Vicar, 

Stand  resolv’d  with  his  bride  before  you  in  front  of  the  altar. 

And  so  the  happy  feast-day,  observ’d  alike  in  all  countries. 

Seem  in  future  to  me  a  glad  home-anniversary  likewise! 

But  I  am  sorry  to  see  the  lad,  who  always  so  active 

Shews  himself  for  me  at  home,  out  of  doors  so  slow  and  so  bashful. 

Little  desire  hath  he  amongst  people  to  make  his  appearance; 

Nay,  he  avoids  altogether  the  company  of  our  young  maidens, 

And  the  frolicksome  dance,  in  which  youth  ever  rejoiceth.” 


•V/taf 


"  A  A  \ 


''  4f 


Thus  he  spake,  and  then  listen’d.  The  noise  of  clattering  horses, 
Distant  at  first,  was  heard  to  draw  near,  and  the  roll  of  the  carriage. 
Which  with  impetuous  speed  now  came  thundering  under  the  gatewa}’. 


HERMANN. 

A’  hen  now  the  well-form’ d  son  came  into  the  parlour  and  join’d  them, 
Keen  and  direct  were  the  glances  with  which  the  Vicar  surve}'’d  him, 
And  remark’d  his  manner,  and  scann’d  the  whole  of  his  bearing 
With  the  observant  eye  which  easily  reads  through  each  feature : 

Then  he  smiled,  and  with  words  of  cordial  purport  address’d  him: 
“Surely,  an  alter’d  man  you  come  in!  I  never  have  seen  you 
Look  so  sprightly  before,  with  a  gleam  of  such  animation. 

Joyous  you  come  and  gay:  ‘tis  clear  you  divided  your  presents 
Ably  amongst  the  poor,  and  receiv'd  in  return  their  rich  blessing.” 

Quickly  then  the  son  with  words  of  earnestness  answer’d; 

„\\Tether  I  merited  praise,  I  know  not;  but  my  own  feelings 


II 


Bade  me  to  do  what  now  I  wish  to  relate  to  you  fully. 

Mother,  you  rummaged  so  long  your  old  stores,  in  searching  and  choosing. 

That  it  was  not  till  late  that  the  bundle  was  all  got  together. 

And  the  wine  and  the  beer  were  slowly  and  carefully  pack’d  up. 

When  to  the  gate  at  length  and  along  the  street  I  proceeded. 

Streaming  back  came  the  mass  of  the  townsmen,  with  women  and  children. 

Right  in  my  way;  and  now  far  off  was  the  train  of  the  exiles. 

Therefore  I  held  on  faster,  and  cjuickly  drove  to  the  village. 

Where  they  would  halt,  as  1  heard,  for  the  night,  and  rest  their  poor  bodies. 
When  now,  as  I  went  on,  I  reach’d  the  new  road  through  the  valley. 

There  was  a  waggon  in  sight,  constructed  with  suitable  timbers. 

Drawn  by  two  oxen,  the  largest  and  strongest  that  foreigners  boast  of. 

Close  by  its  side  with  steps  full  of  strength  was  walking  a  maiden. 

Guiding  with  a  long  rod  the  pair  of  powerful  cattle. 

Urging  on  now,  and  again  holding  back,  as  she  skilfully  led  them. 

Soon  as  the  maiden  saw  me,  she  calmly  came  near  to  my  horses. 

Saying:  “It  is  not  always  we’ve  been  in  such  doleful  condition 
As  you  behold  us  to-day  along  these  roads  of  your  country. 

Truly,  I  am  not  accustom’d  to  ask  the  donations  of  strangers. 

Which  they  oft  grudgingly  give,  to  be  rid  of  the  poor  man’s  petitions ; 

But  I  am  urged  to  speak  by  necessity.  Stretch’d  on  the  straw  here. 

Newly  deliver’d,  the  wife  of  a  once  rich  proprietor  lleth. 

Whom,  with  child  as  she  was,  I  scarce  saved  with  the  steers  and  the  waggon. 
Slowly  we  follow  the  rest,  while  in  life  she  hath  hartly  continued. 

Naked  now  on  her  arm  the  new-born  infant  is  lying. 

And  with  but  scanty  means  our  people  are  able  to  help  us. 

It  in  the  village  hard  by,  where  we  think  of  resting,  we  find  them; 

1  hough  I  am  greatly  in  fear  they  already  are  gone  along  past  it. 

It  from  these  parts  you  come,  and  a  store  of  superfluous  linen 
Anywhere  have  at  command,  on  the  poor  it  were  kind  to  bestow  it.” 


12 


Thus  she  spake;  and,  faint  and  pale,  from  the  straw  the  poor  woman 
Rising  shew’d  herself  to  me;  when  thus  in  return  I  address’d  them; 

“Good  men,  surely,  oft  are  warn’d  by  a  spirit  from  heaven. 

So  that  they  feel  the  need  which  o’er  their  poor  brother  is  hanging: 

For  my  mother,  your  trouble  thus  teeling  beforehand,  a  bundle 
Gave  me,  wherewith  at  once  to  supply  the  wants  of  the  naked.” 

Then  I  untied  the  knots  of  the  cord,  and  the  dressing-gown  gave  her. 

Once  our  father’s,  and  with  it  I  gave  the  chemises  and  flannel. 

And  she  thank’d  me  with  joy,  and  exclaim’d;  “The  prosperous  think  not 

Miracles  still  are  wrought;  for  man  in  misery  only 

Sees  God’s  hand  and  finger,  which  good  men  guideth  to  good  men. 

What  through  you  He  is  doing  to  us,  may  He  do  to  you  likewise!” 

And  I  saw  the  glad  mother  the  different  pieces  of  linen 
Handling,  but  most  of  all,  the  gown’s  soft  lining  of  flannel. 

Then  said  the  maiden  to  her:  “Now  speed  we  on  to  the  village. 

Where  for  the  night  our  people  already  are  halting  and  resting. 

There  the  baby-clothes,  one  and  all.  I'll  quickly  attend  to.“ 

Then  she  greeted  me,  and  thanks  the  mo.st  cordial  expressing. 

Drove  on  the  oxen,  and  so  the  waggon  went  forward.  T  waited. 

Still  holding  back  my  horses;  for  doubt  arose  in  my  bosom. 

Whether  with  hurrying  steeds  I  should  go  to  the  village,  the  viands 
’Mong.st  the  rest  of  the  crowd  to  dispense,  or  here  to  the  maiden 
All  deliver  at  once,  that  she  with  discretion  might  .share  it. 

But  within  my  heart  I  quickly  decided,  and  gently 

After  her  went,  and  o’ertook  her  soon,  and  cjuickly  said  to  her: 

“’Tis  not  linen  alone,  good  maiden,  to  bring  in  the  carriage. 

That  my  mother  gave  me,  wherewith  to  cover  the  naked; 

But  she  added  thereto  both  meat  and  drink  in  abundance. 

And  I  have  plenty  thereof  pack’d  up  in  the  box  of  the  carriage. 

But  now  I  feel  inclined  these  presents,  as  well  as  the  others. 


13 


Into  thy  hand  to  give,  thus  best  fulfilling  my  mission; 

Thou  wilt  dispense  them  with  judgment,  while  I  by  chance  must  be  guided.” 

Then  replied  the  maiden :  “With  all  fidelity  will  I 

There  dispose  of  your  gifts,  and  the  poor  shall  richly  enjoy  them.” 

Thus  she  spake,  and  quickly  I  open’d  the  box  of  the  carriage. 

Bringing  out  therefrom  the  loaves,  and  the  hams  weighing  heavy. 

Bottles  of  wine  and  beer,  and  all  the  rest,  to  give  to  her. 

More  would  I  fain  have  given  her  still,  but  the  box  was  now  empty. 

Then  she  pack’d  them  all  by  the  feet  of  the  mother,  and  so  went 
Onward,  while  with  all  speed  to  the  town  I  came  back  with  my  horses.” 

When  now  Hermann  had  ended,  at  once  the  talkative  neighbour. 

Taking  up  the  discourse,  exclaim’d:  “Oh,  that  man  is  happy, 

Wdio  in  these  days  of  flight  and  confusion  alone  in  his  house  lives, 

Blaving  nor  wife  nor  children  to  cringe  before  him  in  terror. 

Happy  I  feel  myself  now;  nor  would  I  to-day  for  much  money 
Bear  the  title  of  father,  and  have  wife  and  children  to  care  for. 

Often  ere  now  about  flight  have  I  tought  with  myself,  and  have  pack’d  up 
All  the  best  of  my  goods  together,  —  the  chains  and  the  old  coins 
Of  my  late  mother,  whereof  not  a  thing  has  been  sold  to  this  moment. 

Much,  to  be  sure,  would  be  left  behind  not  easy  to  furnish: 

Even  my  simples  and  roots,  collected  there  with  much  trouble, 

I  should  be  sorry  to  lose,  though  things  of  no  very  great  value. 

Still,  only  let  the  dispenser  remain,  and  I  go  with  some  comfort. 

Let  me  but  rescue  my  cash  and  my  body,  and  all  is  then  rescued. 

Easiest  from  such  troubles  escapes  the  man  that  is  single.” 

“Neighbour,”  replied  thereupon  young  Hermann,  with  emphasis  speaking, 
“Not  at  all  do  I  think  as  thou,  and  thy  speech  I  must  censure. 

Is,  then,  he  the  best  man,  who  in  prosperous  days  and  in  adverse 


1.1 


Thinks  of  himself  alone,  and  to  share  his  joys  and  his  sorrows 
Knows  not,  nor  feels  thereto  in  his  heart  the  least  inclination? 

Sooner  now  than  ever  could  I  determine  to  marry. 

IMany  a  good  maid  now  stands  in  need  of  a  man  to  protect  her; 

Many  a  man  needs  a  wife,  to  cheer  him  when  troubles  are  threat’ning.” 

Smiling,  said  thereupon  the  father:  “I  hear  thee  with  gladness; 

Such  a  sensible  word  in  my  presence  thou  seldom  hast  spoken.” 

But  the  mother  at  once  chimed  in,  her  part  quickly  taking: 

“Son,  in  good  truth  thou  art  rig'ht;  and  thy  parents  set  the  example. 

For  they  were  no  days  of  joy  in  which  we  chose  one  another. 

And  our  most  sorrowful  hour  but  join’d  us  the  closer  together. 

Next  Monday  morning  —  I  know  it  full  well;  for  the  day  before  happen’d 
That  most  terrible  fire  which  gave  our  dear  town  to  destruction  — 

It  will  be  twenty  years.  It  was,  like  to-day,  on  a  Sunday: 

Hot  and  dry  was  the  season,  and  in  the  place  little  water. 

All  the  people  were  out,  taking  walks  in  their  holiday  clothing. 

Scatter’d  about  the  hamlets,  and  in  the  mills*  and  the  taverns. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  town  the  fire  commenc’d,  and  the  flames  ran 
Quickly  through  the  streets,  with  the  wind  themselves  had  created. 

And  the  barns  were  burnt,  with  the  rich  and  new-gather’d  harvest. 

And  the  streets  were  burnt;  right  up  to  the  market;  my  father 
Lost  his  house  hard  by,  and  this  one  soon  perish’d  with  it. 

Little  saved  we  in  flight.  I  sat  the  sorrowful  night  through 

Out  of  the  town,  on  the  green,  taking  care  of  the  beds  and  the  boxes^ 

Sleep  at  length  fell  o’er  me;  and  when  the  cold  of  the  morning-. 

Falling  down  ere  the  sun  was  up,  from  my  slumber  awoke  me; 


*  The  mills  in  Germany  are  generally  places  of  refreshment. 


15 


There  I  saw  the  smoke,  and  the  flame,  and  the  old  walls  and  chirnnejs. 

Then  was  my  heart  in  anguish,  until,  more  splendid  than  evei’. 

Up  came  the  sun  once  more,  and  into  my  soul  shed  new  courage. 

Then  I  arose  with  haste,  for  I  long’d  the  spot  to  examine, 

'WTere  our  dwelling  hat  stood,  and  see  if  the  fowls  had  been  rescued, 

^\’’hich  I  so  fondly  loved;  for  childish  still  were  my  feelings. 

As,  then,  I  thus  stepp’d  on,  o’er  the  ruins  of  house  and  of  homestead. 

Smoking  still,  and  so  found  my  home,  and  beheld  its  destruction; 

Thou  too,  searching  the  spot,  earnest  up  in  the  other  direction. 

Thou  hadst  a  horse  buried  there  in  his  stall;  the  timbers  and  rubbish 
Glimmering  lay  upon  him,  and  nought  could  be  seen  of  the  boor  beast. 
Thoughtful  thus  and  sad  we  stood  o’er  against  one  another; 

For  the  wall  was  fallen  which  erst  had  divided  our  houses. 

Then  by  the  hand  thou  took’st  me,  and  saidst:  “Louisa,  poor  maiden. 

How  cam’st  thou  here?  Go  thy  way!  thou  art  burning  thy  soles  in  the  rubbish; 
For  it  is  hot,  and  singes  e’en  these  strong  boots  I  am  wearing.” 

And  thou  didst  lift  me  up,  and  carry  me  through  thine  own  homestead. 

Still  there  was  standing  the  gate  of  the  house,  with  its  high  vaulted  ceiling. 

As  it  now  stands;  but  that  alone  of  all  was  remaining. 

And  thou  didst  set  me  down,  and  kiss  me,  although  I  forbad  it. 

But  upon  that  thou  spakest  with  kindl}'  w^ords  full  of  meaning; 

“See!  the  house  lies  low.  Stay  here,  and  help  me  to  build  it; 

And  let  me  help  in  return,  to  build  thy  father’s  up  likewise.” 

Yet  did  I  not  understand  thee,  until  to  my  father  thou  sentest, 

And  through  my  mother  full  soon  the  vows  of  glad  wedlock  were  plighted. 
Joyfully  still  to  this  day  I  remember  the  half-consum’d  timbers. 

And  still  joyfully  see  the  sun  arise  in  his  splendour: 

hor  it  was  that  da}’  gave  me  my  husband;  the  son  of  my  youth  was 

First  bestow’d  upon  me  by  those  wild  times  of  destruction. 

Therefore  I  praise  thee,  Hermann,  that  thou,  with  bright  trust  in  the  future. 


In  these  sorrowful  times  of  a  maid  for  thyself,  too,  art  thinking-. 

And  hast  courage  to  woo  in  the  war,  and  over  its  ruins.” 

Quickly  then  the  father  replied,  with  much  animation: 

“Laudable  is  the  feeling,  and  true,  too,  each  word  of  the  stoiy. 

Mother  dear,  which  thou  hast  told;  for  so  it  happen’d  exactly. 

But  what  is  better  is  better.  It  is  not  becoming-  that  each  one 
Should  from  the  past  be  content  to  form  his  whole  life  and  condition ; 
Nor  should  ev’r}'  one  choose,  as  we  did,  and  others  before  him. 

Oh,  how  happy  is  he,  to  whom  his  father  and  mother 
Leave  the  house  well-furnish’d,  and  w^ho  with  success  then  adorns  it! 
Ev’ry  beginning  is  hard,  —  the  beginning  of  house-keeping  hardest. 
Things  of  many  a  kind  man  wants,  and  all  things  grow  daily 
Dearer;  then  let  him  in  time  provide  for  increasing  his  money. 

And  thus  I  cherish  a  hope  of  thee,  my  Hermann,  that  quickly 
Into  the  house  thou  wilt  bring  thy  bride  with  fine  marriage-portion; 

For  a  high-spirited  man  deserves  a  well-endow’d  maiden; 

And  it  gives  so  much  pleasure,  when  with  the  dear  wife  of  his  wishes 
Come  in  the  useful  presents,  too,  in  baskets  and  boxes! 

’Tis  not  in  vain  that  the  mother  through  many  a  year  is  preparing^ 

Linen  of  ample  store,  of  web  fine  and  strong,  for  her  daughter. 

’Tis  not  in  vain  that  sponsors  present  their  silver  donations, 

And  that  the  father  lays  by  in  his  de.sk  a  gold-piece,  though  seldom; 
For  in  due  time  shall  she  thus  delight  with  her  goods  and  her  presents 
That  young  man  who  hath  made  her,  before  all  others,  his  chosen. 

Yes,  I  know  in  her  house  how  pleasant  the  dear  wife  must  find  it 
Both  in  kitchen  and  parlour  to  see  her  own  furniture  standing. 

And  herself  her  own  bed,  herself  her  own  board  to  have  cover'd. 

May  I  but  see  in  the  house  the  bride  that  is  handsomely  portion’d! 

For  the  poor  one  at  last  is  only  despised  by  her  husband. 


17 


And  as  a  servant  she’s  treated,  who  servant-like  came  with  a  bundle. 

Men  continue  unjust,  and  the  season  of  love  passeth  by  them. 

Yes,  my  Hermann,  thou  wouldst  to  my  age  grant  highest  enjoyment. 

If  to  my  house  ere  long  thou  shouldst  bring  me  a  dear  little  daughter. 

From  the  neighbourhood  here  —  from  the  house  painted  green  over  yonder. 
Rich  is  the  man  —  that’s  sure ;  and  his  trade  and  factories  make  him 
Daily  richer;  for  what  does  not  turn  to  gain  for  the  merchant? 

And  there  are  only  three  daughters  to  share  his  possessions  amongst  them. 
Won  already,  I  know,  is  the  eldest,  and  promis’d  in  marriage: 

But  the  second  and  third  may  be  had,  though  not  long  may  they  be  so. 
Had  I  been  in  your  place,  till  now  I  would  not  have  tarried. 

One  of  the  girls  for  myself  to  bring  here,  as  I  did  your  mother.” 

Modestly  then  the  son  to  his  urgent  father  made  answer; 

“Truly,  my  wish  too  was,  a  yours  is,  one  of  the  daughters 

Of  our  neighbour  to  choose ;  for  we  all  were  brought  up  together ; 

Round  the  spring  in  the  market  in  former  times  had  we  sported. 

And  from  the  town-boys’  rudeness  I  often  used  to  protect  them. 

But  that  was  long  ago ;  and  girls  at  length,  when  they  grow  up. 

Stay,  as  is  proper,  at  home,  and  avoid  such  wild  sportive  meetings. 

Well  brought  up  they  are,  to  be  sure;  still,  from  former  acquaintance, 

As  you  wish’d  it,  I  went  trom  time  to  time  over  yonder: 

But  in  their  conversation  I  never  could  feel  myself  happy , 

Since  they  would  always  be  finding  fault,  which  tax’d  my  endurtince. 

Quite  too  long  wxis  my  coat,  the  cloth  was  too  coarse,  and  the  colour 
Quite  too  common ;  and  then  my  hair  was  not  cut  and  curl’d  rig-htly ; 

So  that  at  last  I  thought  of  bedecking  myself  like  the  shop-boys 
Qver  there,  who  on  Sunday  are  always  displaying  their  figures. 

And  w'hose  lappets  in  summer,  hall  silk,  hang  so  loosely  about  them. 

But  I  observ’d  soon  enough  that  they  always  to  ridicule  turn’d  me; 


Which  offended  me  much,  for  my  pride  was  wounded.  More  deeply 
Still  did  it  vex  me  to  find  that  they  misunderstood  the  kind  feeling 
Which  I  cherish’d  for  them,  —  especially  Minnie,  the  youngest. 

For  I  went  the  last  time  at  Easter  to  pay  them  a  visit. 

And  had  donn’d  my  new  coat,  which  now  hangs  up  in  the  wardrobe. 

And  my  hair  I  had  got  well  curl’d,  like  the  rest  of  the  fellows. 

M^heh  I  went  in,  they  titter’d ;  but  I  to  m3'self  did  not  take  it. 

At  the  piano  sat  Minnie;  her  father  also  was  present. 

Hearing-  his  dear  daughter  .sing,  —  entranced,  and  in  excellent  spirits. 

Much  was  express’d  in  the  songs  that  surpass’d  my  poor  comprehension; 

But  I  heard  a  great  deal  of  Pamina  and  of  Tamino; 

And  since  I  did  not  like  to  sit  dumb,  as  soon  as  she  finish’d. 

Questions  I  ask’d  on  the  words  and  the  two  chief  characters  in  them. 

Then  they  all  at  once  were  silent,  and  smiled;  but  the  father 
Said;  “Our  friend,  sure,  with  none  but  Adam  and  Eve  is  acquainted.” 

No  one  then  refrain’d,  but  loud  was  the  laugh  of  the  maidens. 

Loud  the  laugh  of  the  boys,  while  the  old  man  held  tightly  his  stomach. 
Then  I  let  fall  my  hat  through  embarrassment,  and  the  rude  titter 
Still  went  on  and  on,  in  spite  of  the  singing  and  playing. 

Then  did  I  hurry  back  to  my  home  in  shame  and  vexation. 

Hung  up  my  coat  in  the  wardrobe,  and  drew  my  hair  with  my  fingers 
Down  to  my  head,  and  swore  never  m.ore  to  pass  over  the  threshold. 

And  I  was  perfectly  right;  for  vain  they  all  are  and  loveless. 

And  I  hear  that  with  them  m}'  name  is  always  Tamino.” 

Then  replied  the  mother:  “Thou  shouldst  not,  Hermann,  so  long  time 
Angry  be  with  the  children;  for  children  they  are  all  together. 

Minnie  is  certainly  good,  and  for  thee  always  shew’d  an  affection, 

And  but  lately  she  ask’d  after  thee :  thou  oughtest  to  choose  her.” 


19 


Thoughtfully  then  the  son  replied:  “I  know  not;  that  insult 
Hath  so  deep  an  impression  made  on  me,  that  truly  I  wish  not 
At  the  piano  again  to  see  her,  and  list  to  her  singing.” 

Then  the  father  broke  out,  and  spoke  with  wrathful  expressions : 
“Slight  is  the  joy  I  receive  from  thee !  I  have  ever  asserted 
That  thou  couldst  shew  no  taste  but  for  horses  and  field  operations. 

Just  what  a  servant  does  for  a  man  of  ample  possessions. 

That  dost  thou ;  and  meanwhile  the  son  must  be  miss’d  by  the  father. 

Who  still  shew’d  himself  off  to  his  honour  before  all  the  townsmen. 

Early  thus  with  vain  hope  of  thee  did  thy  mother  deceive  me. 

When  in  the  school  never  progress’d  thy  reading  and  writing  and  learnin 
As  did  that  of  the  rest,  but  thy  place  was  always  the  lowest. 

That  must  happen,  of  course,  when  no  ambition  is  stirring 

In  the  breast  of  a  youth,  and  he  cares  not  to  raise  himself  higher. 

Had  my  father  for  me  shown  the  care  which  on  thee  I  have  lavish’d. 

Had  he  sent  me  to  school,  and  for  me  engaged  the  best  masters, 

Then  had  I  been  something  else  than  the  host  of  the  Golden  Lion.” 

But  the  son  rose  up,  and  approach’d  the  door  in  deep  silence. 

Slow,  and  without  any  noise;  while  his  father,  with  wrath  still  increasing. 
After  him  call’d ;  “Aye,  begone !  I  know  thine  obstinate  temper ; 

Go,  and  attend  henceforth  to  the  business,  or  fear  my  displeasure. 

But  never  think  thou  wilt  bring,  as  a  daughter-in-law  to  thy  father. 

Into  the  house  where  he  lives,  a  boorish  girl  and  a  trollop. 

Long  have  I  lived,  and  with  men  I  know  how  to  deal  as  I  should  do,  — 
Know  how  to  treat  both  ladies  and  gentlemen,  so  that  they  leave  me 
Gratified,  —  know  how  to  flatter,  as  always  is  welcome  to  strangers. 

But  now  at  length  I  must  find  a  dear  daughter-in-law  to  assist  me. 

And  to  sweeten  the  toil  which  I  still  .shall  bear  in  abundance. 


f 


i'll 


4d'. 


«**s  '" 


H 


\ 

>. 


■■ 


.,h  ■■'* 

■  1  i-  /  ;■%  '  ^ 

'  ■■  ■‘ 

*  -)  •?■  •" 

■.  ...^ 


-i 


» 


3» 


4* 


-  ^ 


t 


On  the  piano,  too,  must  she  play  to  me,  while  are  assembled, 

List’ning  around  her  with  pleasure,  our  burghers,  the  best  and  the  fairest, 
As  on  Sunday  is  done  in  the  house  of  our  neighbour,”  Then  Hermann 
Softly  lifted  the  latch,  and  so  went  out  of  the  parlour. 


o 


THE  BURGHERS. 


Thus,  then,  the  modest  son  escaped  that  passionate  language: 

But  the  father  went  on  in  the  self-same  way  he  began  in : 

“That  which  is  not  in  man  comes  out  of  him ;  and  I  can  hardly 
Ever  expect  to  bring  my  heart’s  dearest  wish  to  fulfilment. 

That  my  son  might  be,  not  his  father’s  equal,  but  better. 

For,  now,  what  were  the  house,  and  what  were  the  town,  did  not  each  one 
Always  think  with  desire  of  upholding  and  of  renewing. 

Aye,  and  improving  too,  as  time  and  travel  instruct  us? 

Must  not  man  in  such  case  grow  out  of  the  ground  like  a  mushroom. 

And  as  quickly  decay  on  the  spot  which  lately  produced  him. 

No  single  vestige  behind  him  of  vital  activity  leaving? 

Surely ,  one  sees  in  a  house  the  mind  of  the  master  as  clearly 

As  in  the  town,  where  one  walks,  of  the  magistrate’s  wisdom  he  judgeth. 

For,  where  the  towers  and  the  walls  are  falling,  where  in  the  trenches 

“3 


Dirt  is  piled  up,  and  dirt  in  all  the  streets,  too,  lies  scatter’d; 

Where  the  stone  from  the  joining-  protudes,  with  none  to  replace  it, 

^^^here  the  beam  is  decay’d,  and  the  house,  all  idle  and  empty, 

^^"aits  to  be  under-pinn’d,  afresh,  —  that  place  is  ill-govern’d. 

For,  where  the  rulers  work  not  for  order  and  cleanliness  always. 

Easily  there  the  townsmen  to  dirty  sloth  grow  accustom’d; 

Just  as  his  tatter’d  clothes  to  the  beggar  become  most  familiar. 

Therefore  is  it  my  wish  that  Hermann,  my  son,  on  a  journey 

Soon  should  set  out,  and  at  least  have  a  sight  of  Strasburg  and  Frankfort, 

And  the  agreeable  Mannheim  with  cheerful  and  regular  outline. 

For  whoever  hath  seen  cities  large  and  cleanly,  will  rest  not. 

Till  his  own  native  town,  however  small,  he  embellish. 

Do  not  strangers  commend  our  gateways  since  their  improvement. 

And  our  whiten’d  tower,  and  our  church  restored  so  completely? 

Does  not  each  one  extol  our  pavement,  and  mains  rich  with  water. 

Cover’d  and  well-divided,  for  usefulness  and  for  assurance 

That  on  its  first  breaking  out  a  fire  might  at  once  be  kept  under? 

Has  not  all  this  been  done  since  that  terrible  conflagration? 

Six  times  I  acted  as  builder,  and  won  the  praise  of  the  Council, 

And  the  most  hearty  thanks  of  the  townsmen,  for  having  suggested. 

And  by  assiduous  efforts  completed  that  good  Institution, 

Which  honest  men  now  support,  but  before  had  left  unaccomplish’d. 

Thus  at  length  the  desire  possess’d  each  member  of  Council: 

All  alike  at  present  exert  themselves,  and  the  new  causeway 
Is  decided  on  quite,  with  the  great  high-roads  to  connect  us. 

But  I  am  much  afraid  our  youth  will  not  act  in  this  manner: 

Some  of  whom  only  think  of  the  pleasure  and  show  of  the  moment, 

MTile  others  sit  in  the  house,  and  behind  the  stove  still  are  brooding: 

And  what  I  fear  is  to  see  such  a  character  always  in  Hermann.” 


24 


Then  replied  at  once  the  good  and  sensible  mother: 

“Father,  e’en  so  tow’rd  our  son  thou  art  ever  prone  to  injustice; 

And  e’en  so  least  of  all  will  thy  wish  for  his  good  find  fulfilment. 

After  our  own  inclinations  we  cannot  fashion  our  children, 

But  as  God  gave  them  to  us,  e’en  so  must  we  keep  them  and  love  them, 
Training  them  up  for  the  best,  and  then  leaving  each  to  improve  it. 

Gifts  of  one  kind  to  one,  of  another  belong  to  another ; 

Each  one  doth  use  them,  and  each  is  still  only  good  and  successful 
In  his  peculiar  way.  Thou  shalt  not  find  fault  with  my  Hermann, 

^\’’ho,  I  am  sure,  will  deserve  the  fortune  he  ’ll  some  day  inherit. 

And  be  an  excellent  landlord,  a  pattern  of  townsmen  and  farmers. 

And  not  the  last  in  the  Council,  —  I  see  it  already  beforehand. 

But  in  the  poor  boy’s  breast  with  thy  daily  blaming  and  scolding. 

As  thou  hast  done  to-day,  thou  checkest  all  feeling  of  courage.” 

Then  she  left  the  room,  and  after  her  son  quickly  follow’d, 

That,  having  somewhere  found  him,  she  might  with  soft  words  of  kindness 
Cheer  him  again;  for  he,  her  excellent  son,  well  deserv’d  it. 

When  she  was  thus  gone  away,  at  once  the  father  said,  smiling: 
“Truly  a  marvellous  race  are  women  —  as  much  so  as  children! 

Each  of  them  loves  so  to  live  just  after  her  own  proper  liking; 

And  one  must  do  nothing  then  but  always  be  praising  and  fondling. 

But  once  for  all  holds  good  that  truth-speaking  proverb  of  old-time, 

‘Who  will  not  foremost  go,  he  comes  in  hindmost.’  So  is  it.” 

Then  replied  to  him  the  Druggist,  with  great  circumspection: 

“Gladly,  neighbour,  I  grant  you  this,  and  for  all  that  is  better 
Ever  myself  do  look  out,  —  if  ’tls  new  without  being  dearer. 

But  is  it  really  good,  when  one  has  not  abundance  of  money. 

Active  and  bustling  to  be,  and  in  doors  and  out  to  be  mending? 


Nay,  too  much  is  the  burgher  kept  back;  increase  his  possessions, 

E’en  if  he  could,  he  may  not:  his  purse  is  ever  too  slender. 

And  his  need  is  too  great;  and  so  he  is  always  impeded. 
iNIany  a  thing  had  I  done,  but  the  cost  of  such  alterations 
Who  doest  not  wish  to  avoid?  above  all,  in  times  of  such  danger. 

Long,  in  time  past,  my  house  in  its  dress  of  new  fashion  was  laughing; 

Long  with  ample  panes  throughout  it  the  wdndows  did  glitter. 

But  does  the  man  who  in  this  would  vie  with  the  merchant,  know  also, 

As  he  does,  the  best  way  to  make  his  property  greater? 

Only  look  at  the  house  over  there  —  the  new  one;  —  how  handsome 
Shews  on  its  ground  of  green  each  wLite  compartment  of  stucco ! 

Large  are  the  lights  of  the  wdndows;  the  panes  are  flashing  and  gleaming, 
So  that  the  rest  of  the  houses  throughout  the  square  stand  in  darkness. 

And  yet,  after  the  fire,  wmre  ours  at  first  quite  the  finest, 

Mine  with  the  Golden  Angel,  and  yours  with  the  Golden  Lion. 

So  was  my  garden,  too,  throughout  the  whole  neighbourhood  famous. 

And  each  traveller  stood,  and  look’d  through  the  red  palisading 
At  the  beggars  in  stone  and  the  pigmies  colour’d  so  gaily. 

Then,  wLen  I  gave  a  friend  coffee  within  the  glorious  shell-work. 

Which,  to  be  sure,  now  stands  all  dusty  and  ready  to  tumble. 

Great  was  the  pleasure  he  took  in  the  colour’d  sheen  of  the  muscles. 

Ranged  in  beautiful  order;  and  e’en  the  connoisseur,  gazing. 

Look’d  with  dazzled  eye  on  the  crystals*  of  lead  and  the  corals. 

So  did  the  paintings,  too,  in  the  drawdng-room  gain  admiration, 

Where  fine  lords  and  ladies  wmre  taking  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

And  wnth  their  taper  fingers  the  flowers  were  giving  and  holding. 

Yes,  who  would  now  any  more  cast  an  eye  upon  that?  Lor  vexation 
Scarce  do  I  ever  stir  out:  for  all  must  be  modern  and  tasteful. 


*  The  original  word  signifies  properly  a  combination  of  lead  and  sulphur,  often  found  in  a  crystalline  form. 


As  it  is  call’d,  —  the  pales  must  be  white,  and  the  seats  must  be  wooden; 
All  now  is  simple  and  plain;  carv’d  work  and  gilding;  no  longer 
Will  they  endure;  and  now  foreign  wood  is  of  all  things  most  costly. 

Were  I,  now,  so  dispos’d  to  have  my  things  newly  fashion’d. 

Even  to  go  with  the  times,  and  my  furniture  often  be  changing, 

Yet  does  ev’ry  one  fear  to  make  e’en  the  least  alterations. 

For  who  now  can  afford  to  pay  the  bills  of  the  workmen? 

’T  was  but  lately  I  thought  of  having  Michael  the  Angel, 

Who  is  the  sign  of  my  shop,  again  embellish’d  with  gilding. 

And  the  green  dragon,  too,  winding  under  his  feet;  but  I  left  him 
Dingy  still,  as  he  is;  for  the  sum  that  they  ask’d  (|uite  alarm’d  me. 


27 


i 


p  ‘ 


« 

■Ti  . 


V 


\ 


I 


Ji 


V.' 

*, 


r 


rsi 


'•■  -  -w  *  •**^ 


.  ^  fe 


MOTHER  AND  SON. 


Ihus  spake  together  the  men  in  friendly  converse.  The  Mother 
Went  meanwhile  in  front  of  the  house,  to  search  for  her  Hermann 
On  the  bench  of  stone,  the  seat  he  most  often  frequented. 

When  she  found  him  not  there,  she  went  and  look’d  in  the  stable, 
AVhether  the  noble  steeds  of  high  courage  claim’d  his  attention. 

Which  he  had  bought  when  foals,  and  which  he  intrusted  to  no  one. 
Then  the  servant  said:  “He  is  gone  aw^ay  into  the  garden.” 

Quickly  then  she  stepp’d  across  the  long  double  court-yard. 

Left  the  stables  behind,  and  the  barns  all  built  of  good  timber. 

Into  the  garden  went,  which  extended  right  up  to  the  town- walls; 

Pass’d  straight  through  it,  enjoying  meanwhile  the  bloom  of  each  object. 
Upright  set  the  props  on  which  the  apple-tree’s  branches 
Rested,  o’erladen  with  fruit,  and  the  burden’d  boughs  of  the  pear-tree. 
And  from  the  strong  swelling  kale  pick’d  a  few  caterpillars  in  passing; 


29 


For  the  industrious  wife  takes  no  single  step  that  is  useless. 

Thus  had  she  come  to  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  up  to  the  arbour, 

Cover’d  with  honey-suckles ;  but  there  no  more  of  her  Hermann 
vSaw  she,  than  she  had  seen  in  the  garden  she  just  now  had  travers’d. 

But  on  the  latch  was  left  the  wicket,  which  out  of  the  arbour. 

As  an  especial  favour,  their  trusty  forefather  the  Mayor 

Had,  in  times  gone  by,  through  the  walls  of  the  town  got  erected. 

Thus  without  any  trouble  she  pass’d  across  the  dry  trenches, 

Mdiere  from  the  road  close  at  hand  went  up  the  steep  path  of  the  vineyard. 
Well  inclos’d,  and  straight  to  the  sun’s  rays  turning  its  surface. 

This,  too,  she  travers’d  throughout,  and  enjoy’d  the  sight,  while  ascending. 
Of  the  abundant  grapes,  beneath  their  leaves  scarcely  cover’d. 

Shaded  and  roof’d- in  with  vines  was  the  lofty  walk  in  the  centre. 

Which  they  ascended  by  steps  of  slab-stones  rough  from  the  cjuarry. 

And  within  it  were  hanging  Gutedel  and  Muscatel  bunches, 

A\"ondrous  in  size,  and  e’en  then  displaying  tints  red  and  purple. 

Planted  all  with  care,  to  the  guests’  dessert  to  add  splendour. 

But  with  single  plants  the  rest  of  the  vineyard  was  cover’d. 

Bearing  smaller  grapes,  from  which  flows  wine  the  most  costly. 

Thus  then  she  mounted  up,  with  glad  thoughts  already  of  Autumn, 

And  of  that  festal  day  when  the  country  in  jubilee  gathers. 

Plucking  and  treading  the  grapes,  and  in  casks  the  sweet  must  collecting; 
While,  in  the  evening,  fire- works  light  up  each  spot  and  each  corner. 
Flashing  and  cracking;  and  so  full  honour  is  paid  to  the  vintage. 

Yet  she  went  ill  at  ease,  when  the  name  of  her  son  she  had  shouted 

Twice  or  thrice,  and  echo  alone  in  manifold  voices 

From  the  towers  of  the  town  with  great  loquacity  answer’d. 

It  was  so  strange  for  her  to  seek  him!  he  never  had  wander’d 
Far,  or  he  told  it  to  her,  —  the  cares  of  his  dear  loving  Mother 
Thus  to  prevent,  and  her  fears  lest  ought  of  ill  should  befal  him. 


3° 


And  she  was  still  in  hope  that  on  the  way  she  should  find  him ; 

For  the  doors  of  the  vineyard,  the  lower  and  also  the  upper, 

Open  alike  were  standing.  And  so  the  field  she  next  enter’d. 

With  whose  further  slopes  the  back  of  the  hill  was  all  cover’d. 

Still  on  ground  of  her  own  all  the  time  she  was  treading,  and  pleasant 
Was  it  for  her  to  see  her  own  crops,  and  corn  nodding  richly, 

W'hich  over  all  the  land  with  golden  vigour  was  waving. 

Right  between  the  fields  she  went,  on  the  green  sward,  the  foot-path 
Keeping  still  in  view,  and  the  great  pear-tree  on  the  summit. 

Which  was  the  bound  of  the  fields  her  house  still  held  in  possession. 

Who  had  planted  it,  none  could  tell.  Far  and  wide  through  the  country 
There  it  was  to  be  seen ,  and  the  fruit  of  the  tree  was  most  famous. 

’Neath  it  the  reaper  was  wont  to  enjoy  his  meal  in  the  midday. 

And  in  its  shade  the  neatherd  to  wait  the  return  of  his  cattle. 

Benches  of  rough  stone  and  turf  the  seats  they  there  found  to  sit  on. 

And  she  was  not  mistaken;  there  sat  her  Flermann,  and  rested  — 

Sat  with  his  arm  propp’d  up,  and  seem’d  to  gaze  o’er  the  country 
Far  away  towr’d  the  mountain,  his  back  turn’d  lull  on  his  mother. 

Softly  she  stole  up  to  him,  and  shook  quite  gently  his  shoulder; 

And,  as  he  quickly  turn’d  round,  she  saw  there  were  tears  on  his  eyelids.” 

“Mother,”  he  said,  disconcerted,  “your  coming  surpris’d  me.”  Then  quickly 
Dried  he  up  his  tears  —  that  youth  of  excellent  feelings. 

“What!  Thou  art  weeping,  my  son,”  his  mother  replied  with  amazement, 

“And  must  I  to  thy  grief  be  a  stranger?  I  ne’er  was  thus  treated. 

Say,  what  is  breaking  thy  heart?  What  urges  thee  thus  to  sit  lonely 
Under  the  pear-tree  here?  What  brings  the  tears  to  thine  eyelids? 

Then  the  excellent  youth  collected  himself,  and  thus  answer’d : 

“He  who  beareth  no  heart  in  his  brazen  bosom  now  feels  not. 


31 


Truly,  the  wants  of  men  who  are  driven  about  in  misfortune; 

He  in  whose  head  is  no  sense,  in  these  days  will  take  little  trouble. 
Studying  what  is  good  for  himself  and  the  land  of  his  fathers. 

What  I  had  seen  and  heard  to  -  day  fill’d  my  heart  with  disquiet : 

And  then  I  came  up  here,  and  saw  the  glorious  landscape 
Spreading  afar,  tind  winding  around  us  with  fruit- bearing  uplands: 

Saw,  too,  the  golden  fruit  bowing  down,  as  if  for  the  reaping. 

Full  of  promise  to  us  of  rich  harvest  and  garners  replenish’d. 

O  but,  alas,  how  near  is  the  foe!  The  Rhine’s  flowing  waters  ' 

Are,  to  be  sure,  our  guard:  yet  what  now  are  waters  and  mountains 
To  that  terrible  people  which  comes  on  thence  like  a  tempest? 

For  they  are  calling  together  from  every  corner  the  young  men. 

Aye,  and  the  old,  and  onward  are  urging  with  might,  and  the  masses 
Shun  not  the  face  of  death,  but  masses  still  press  upon  miasses. 

And  does  a  German,  alas!  in  his  house  still  venture  to  linger? 

Hopes  he,  forsooth,  alone  to  escape  the  all -menacing  ruin? 

Dearest  Mother,  1  tell  you  it  fills  me  to-day  with  vexation. 

That  I  was  lately  excus’d,  when  from  out  our  townsmen  were  chosen 
Men  for  the  wars.  To  be  sure.  I’m  the  only  son  of  my  father. 

And  our  household  is  large,  and  of  great  importance  our  business; 

But  were  I  not  doing  better  to  take  my  stand  far  out  yonder 
On  the  borders,  than  here  to  wait  for  affliction  and  bondage? 

Yes,  my  spirit  hath  spoken,  and  in  my  innermost  bosom 
Courage  and  wishes  are  stirr’d,  to  live  for  the  land  of  my  fathers. 

Aye,  and  to  die,  and  so  set  a  worthy  example  to  others. 

Truly,  were  but  the  might  of  our  German  youth  all  together 
On  the  borders,  and  leagued  not  an  inch  to  yield  to  the  stranger. 

Oh,  they  should  not  be  allow’d  to  set  foot  on  our  glorious  country. 
And  before  our  eyes  consume  our  land’s  fruitful  produce. 

Lay  their  commands  on  our  men,  and  rob  us  of  wives  and  of  maidens. 


See  then,  mother;  within  the  depth  of  my  heart  I’m  determin’d, 

Quickly  to  do  and  at  once  what  seems  to  me  right  and  judicious; 

For  not  always  is  his  the  best  choice  who  thinks  of  it  longest. 

Lo !  I  will  not  return  to  my  home  from  the  spot  that  I  stand  on. 

But  go  straight  into  town,  and  devote  to  the  ranks  of  our  soldiers 
This  good  arm  and  this  heart,  to  serve  the  land  of  my  fathers. 

Then  let  my  father  say,  if  my  breast  by  no  feeling  of  honour 
Be  enliven’d,  and  if  I  refuse  to  raise  myself  higher.” 

Then  with  deep  meaning  replied  his  good  and  intelligent  mother. 
Shedding  the  gentle  tears  which  so  readily  came  to  her  eyelids: 

“Son,  what  change  is  this  that  hath  come  o’er  thee  and  thy  spirit. 

That  to  thy  mother  thou  speak’st  not,  as  yesterday  and  as  ever, 

Open  and  free,  to  tell  me  what  ’tis  that  would  suit  with  thy  wishes? 

Should  a  third  person  hear  thee  at  present  discoursing,  he  doubtless 
Would  both  commend  thee  much,  and  thy  purpose  praise,  as  most  noble,  — 
Led  away  by  thy  words,  and  thy  speech  so  full  of  deep  meaning. 

Yet  do  I  only  blame  thee ;  for,  lo !  I  know  thee  much  better. 

Thou  art  concealing  thy  heart,  and  thy  thoughts  from  thy  words  widely  differ. 
For  it  is  not  the  drum,  I  know,  nor  the  trumpet  that  calls  thee. 

Nor  in  the  eyes  of  the  girls  dost  thou  wish  to  shine  in  reg’mentals. 

For,  whatever  thy  valour  and  courage,  ’tis  still  thy  vocation 
Well  to  guard  the  house,  and  the  field  to  attend  to  in  quiet. 

Wherefore  tell  me  with  frankness,  what  brings  thee  to  this  resolution?” 

Earnestly  said  the  son;  “You  err,  dear  mother;  one  day  is 
Not  just  like  another;  the  youth  into  manhood  will  ripen. 

Better  oft  ripen  for  action  in  quiet,  than  midst  all  the  tumult 
Of  a  wild  rowing  life,  which  to  many  a  youth  has  been  fatal. 

Thus,  then,  however  calm  I  am,  and  was,  in  my  bosom 


Still  hath  been  moulded  a  heart  which  hateth  wrong  and  injustice. 

Work,  too,  strength  to  my  arm  and  power  to  my  feet  hath  imparted. 

This,  I  feel,  is  all  true,  and  boldly  I  dare  to  maintain  it. 

And  yet,  mother,  you  blame  me  with  justice,  since  you  have  caught  me 
Dealing  with  words  but  half-true,  and  with  half-disguises  of  meaning. 

For,  let  me  simply  confess  it,  it  is  not  the  coming  of  danger. 

That  from  my  father’s  house  now  calls  me,  nor  thoughts  great  and  soaring. 
Succour  to  bring  to  the  land  of  my  sires,  and  its  foes  strike  with  terror. 

All  that  I  spoke  was  mere  words  alone,  intended  to  cover 

Those  bitter  feelings  from  thee,  which  my  heart  are  tearing  asunder. 

O,  then,  leave  me,  my  mother;  for  since  all  vain  are  the  wishes 
Cherish’d  here  in  my  bosom,  in  vain  may  my  life,  too,  be  wasted. 

For  I  know  that  himself  the  individual  injures 

Who  devotes  himself,  when  all  for  the  common  weal  strive  not.” 

“Do  but  proceed,”  so  said  thereupon  the  intelligent  mother, 

“All  to  relate  to  me,  the  chief  thing  alike  and  the  smallest. 

Men  are  hasty,  and  think  on  the  end  alone;  and  the  hasty 
Easily  out  of  their  path  the  least  impediment  driveth. 

But  a  woman  is  apt  to  look  at  the  means,  and  to  travel 
Even  by  round-about  ways,  and  so  to  accomplish  her  purpose. 

Tell  me  then  all;  what  has  moved  thee  to  such  excitement  as  never 
Thou  hast  display’d  before,  —  the  blood  in  thy  veins  fiercely  boiling. 

And,  in  spite  of  thy  will,  the  tears  from  thine  eyes  gushing  thickly?” 

Then  the  good  youth  to  his  pain  his  whole  being  surrender’d,  and  weeping. 
Weeping  aloud  on  his  mother’s  breast,  said  with  deepest  emotion: 

“Truly,  my  father’s  words  of  to-day  did  grievously  wound  me. 

Undeserv’d  as  they  were,  alike  this  day  and  all  others. 

For  ’twas  my  earliest  pleasure  to  honour  my  parents,  and  no  one 


o4 


Cleverer  seem’d,  or  wiser,  than  they  whom  I  thank’d  for  my  being. 

And  for  their  earnest  commands  in  the  twilight  season  of  childhood. 

Much,  in  truth,  had  I  then  to  endure  from  my  playfellows’  humours. 

When  for  my  good  will  to  them  full  oft  with  spite  they  repaid  me. 

Many  a  time,  when  struck  by  stone,  or  hand,  I  o’erlook’d  it. 

But  if  they  ever  turn’d  my  father  to  sport,  when  on  Sunday 
Out  of  church  he  came  with  step  of  dignified  slowness; 

If  they  e’er  laugh’d  at  the  band  of  his  cap,  and  the  flowers  on  his  loose  gown. 
Which  he  so  stately  wore,  and  ne’er  till  to-day  would  abandon; 

Fearlessly  then  did  I  clench  m}-  fist,  and  with  furious  passion 
Fell  I  upon  them,  and  struck  and  hit,  with  blind  reckless  onset. 

Seeing  not  where  my  blows  fell:  they  howl’d,  and  with  blood-dripping  noses 
Hardly  escaped  from  the  kicks  and  strokes  which  I  dealt  in  my  fury. 

And  thus  grew  I  up,  with  much  to  endure  from  my  father. 

Who  full  often  to  me,  instead  of  to  others,  spoke  chiding. 

When  he  was  moved  to  wrath  in  the  Council,  at  its  last  sitting; 

And  I  still  had  to  pay  for  the  strifes  and  intrigues  of  his  colleagues. 

Ofttimes  did  you  yourself  commiserate  all  that  I  suffer’d. 

Wishing  still  from  my  heart  to  serve  and  honour  my  parents. 

Whose  sole  thought  was  for  our  sake  to  add  to  their  goods  and  possessions. 
Often  denying  themselves  in  order  to  save  for  their  children. 

Oh,  but  it  is  not  saving  alone,  and  tardy  enjoyment. 

Not  heap  piled  upon  heap,  and  acre  still  added  to  acre. 

All  so  compactly  inclos’d,  —  it  is  not  this  that  makes  happy. 

No,  for  the  father  grows  old,  and  with  him  the  sons,  too,  grow  older, 

\Aid  of  joy  for  to-day,  and  full  of  care  for  to-morrow. 

Look  down  there,  and  say  how  rich  and  fair  to  the  vision 
Lies  yon  noble  expanse,  and  beneath  it  the  vineyard  and  garden. 

Then  the  barns  and  stables,  —  fair  ranges  of  goodly  possessions. 

Further  on  still  I  see  the  house-back,  where,  in  the  gable. 


35 


Peeping  under  the  roof  my  own  little  room  shews  its  window. 

And  I  reflect  on  the  times,  when  there  the  moon’s  late  appearing 
Many  a  night  I  awaited,  and  many  a  morning  the  sun-rise; 

When  my  sleep  was  so  sound  that  only  few  hours  were  sufficient. 

Ah!  all  seems  to  me  now  as  lonely  as  that  little  chamber,  — 

House,  and  garden,  and  glorious  field  outstretch’d  on  the  hill-side ; 

All  lies  so  dreary  before  me:  I  want  a  partner  to  share  it.” 

Then  replied  to  him  his  good  and  intelligent  mother: 

“Son,  thou  dost  not  more  wish  to  lead  a  bride  to  thy  chamber. 

That  the  night  may  yield  thee  a  lovely  half  of  existence. 

And  the  work  of  the  day  be  more  free  and  more  independent. 

Than  thy  father  and  I,  too,  wish  it.  We  always  advised  thee. 

Aye,  and  have  urged  thee  also,  to  make  thy  choice  of  a  maiden. 

Yet  do  I  know  it  well,  and  my  heart  this  moment  repeats  it. 

That  till  the  right  hour  come,  and  with  the  right  hour  the  right  maiden 
Make  her  appearance,  this  choice  must  still  remain  in  the  distance; 

And  in  most  cases  meanwhile  fear  urges  to  catch  at  the  wrong  one. 

If  I  must  tell  thee,  my  son,  I  believe  thou  hast  chosen  already; 

Since  thy  heart  is  smitten,  and  sensitive  more  than  is  common. 

Speak  it  then  plainly  out,  for  thy  soul  already  declares  it; 

Yonder  maiden  is  she,  —  the  exile,  —  wTom  thou  hast  chosen.” 

“Dearest  mother,  thou  say’st  it,”  the  son  then  quickly  made  answer, 
“Yes,  it  is  she;  and  unless,  as  my  bride’^,  this  day  I  may  bring  her 
Home  to  our  house,  she  goes  on,  and  perhaps  will  vanish  for  ever. 

In  the  confusion  of  war  and  sad  journeyings  hither  and  thither. 

Then  ever  vainly  for  me  our  rich  possessions  will  prosper. 


*  The  titles  of  “bride”  and  “bridegroom”  are  given  in  Germany  to  persons  who  are  only  engaged  to  be  married. 


36 


And  for  these  eyes  ever  vainly  the  years  to  come  will  be  fruitful. 

Yes,  the  familiar  house  and  the  garden  become  my  aversion, 

Ah!  and  the  love  of  his  mother,  e’en  that  her  poor  son  fails  to  comfort. 
For  love  loosens,  I  feel,  all  other  ties  in  the  bosom. 

When  it  makes  fast  her  own;  nor  is  it  only  the  maiden 

That  leaves  father  and  mother,  to  follow  the  youth  she  hath  chosen; 

But  the  youth,  too,  knows  no  more  of  mother  and  father. 

When  he  sees  his  maiden,  his  only  beloved,  go  from  him. 

Wherefore  let  me  depart,  where  desperation  now  drives  me; 

For  my  father  hath  spoken  the  words  that  must  needs  be  decisive. 

And  his  house  is  no  longer  mine,  if  from  it  the  maiden. 

Whom  alone  I  wish  to  bring  home,  by  him  is  excluded.” 

Quickly  then  replied  the  good  and  sensible  mother; 

“Two  men,  surely,  stand  like  rocks  in  stern  opposition; 

Still  unmoved  and  proud  will  neither  advance  tow’rd  the  other. 

Neither  move  his  tongue  the  first  to  words  of  good  feeling. 

Wherefore  I  tell  thee,  son,  in  my  heart  the  hope  is  still  living. 

That  if  she  be  but  worthy  and  good,  to  thee  he’ll  betroth  her 
Though  she  is  poor,  and  he  the  poor  hath  so  stoutly  forbidden. 

Many  a  thing  he  says,  in  his  passionate  way,  which  he  never 
Cares  to  perform;  and  so  it  may  be  with  this  his  refusal. 

But  he  demands  a  soft  word,  and  may  with  reason  demand  it; 

For  he’s  thy  father.  AVe  know,  too,  that  after  dinner  his  anger 
Makes  him  more  hastily  speak,  and  doubt  the  motives  of  others, 

Giving  no  reason ;  for  wine  the  whole  strength  of  his  hot  wilful  temper 
Then  stirs  up,  nor  lets  him  attend  to  what  others  are  saying; 

Only  for  what  he  says  himself  has  he  hearing  or  feeling. 

But  the  evening  is  now  coming  on,  and  long  conversations 
tiave  ere  this  been  exchanged  by  him  and  his  friendly  companions. 


J7 


# 


Gentler,  I’m  sure,  he  must  be,  when  the  fumes  of  the  wine  have  now  left  him. 
And  he  feels  the  injustice  he  shew’d  so  keenl}^  to  others. 

Come !  let  us  venture  at  once ;  nought  speeds  like  the  quickly-tried  venture  ; 
And  we  require  the  friends  who  now  sit  with  him  assembled; 

But,  above  all,  the  support  of  our  worthy  Pastor  will  help  us.” 

Quickly  thus  she  spoke,  and  herself  from  the  bench  of  stone  rising, 

Drew,  too,  her  son  from  his  seat,  who  willingly  follow’d.  In  silence 
Both  descended  the  hill,  on  their  weighty  purpose  reflecting. 


1 


38 


1 


4 


THE  CITIZENS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

]VIeanwhile  sat  the  three  still  incessantly  talking  together, 

With  the  Pastor  the  Druggist,  and  each  by  the  side  of  the  Landlord. 
Aye,  and  the  theme  of  their  talk  was  still  the  self-same  as  ever. 

Carried  backwards  and  forwards,  and  well  examin’d  on  all  sides. 

Then  the  excellent  Vicar  replied,  with  worthy  reflections : 

“I  will  not  contradict  you.  I  know  man  must  ever  be  striving 
After  improvement,  and  still,  as  we  see,  he  will  also  be  striving 
After  what  is  higher ;  at  least  he  seeks  something  novel. 

But  ye  must  not  go  too  far.  For  close  by  the  side  of  this  feeling 
Nature  hath  also  given  the  wish  to  linger  mid  old  things. 

And  to  enjoy  the  presence  of  what  has  long  been  familiar. 

Each  condition  is  good  that  is  sanction’d  by  nature  and  reason. 

Man  wisheth  much  for  himself,  and  yet  he  wanteth  but  little; 


39 


I 


For  his  days  are  but  few,  and  his  mortal  sphere  is  contracted. 

Ne’er  do  I  blame  the  man,  who,  constantly  active  and  restless. 

Urged  on  and  on,  o’er  the  sea  and  along  each  path  of  the  mainland 

Passes  busy  and  bold,  and  enjoyment  finds  in  the  profits 

Which  are  so  richly  heap’d  up,  alike  round  himself  and  his  children. 

But  t//at  character,  too,  I  esteem,  —  the  good  quiet  yeoman. 

Who  with  tranquil  steps  o’er  the  fields  which  his  sires  left  behind  them 
Walks  about,  and  attends  to  the  ground,  as  the  hours  may  require  him. 
Not  for  him  each  year  is  the  soil  still  alter’d  by  culture; 

Not  for  him  does  the  tree,  newly  planted,  with  hastiest  increase 
Stretch  forth  its  boughs  so  heaven,  with  blossoms  most  richly  embellish’d. 
No,  the  man  has  need  of  patience,  —  has  need,  too,  of  simple. 

Quiet,  unvarying  plans,  and  an  intellect  plain  and  straight-forward. 

Small  is  the  measure  of  seed  he  commits  to  the  earth  which  supports  him; 
Few  are  the  beasts  he  is  taught  to  raise  by  his  system  of  breeding; 

For  what  is  useful  is  still  the  only  object  he  thinks  of. 

Happy  the  man  to  whom  nature  hath  given  a  mind  so  decided ! 

He  supporteth  us  all.  And  joy  to  the  small  town’s  good  burgher, 

AVho  with  the  countryman’s  trade  the  trade  of  the  burgher  uniteth! 

On  him  lies  not  the  pressure  which  cripples  the  countryman’s  efforts; 

Nor  is  he  crazed  by  the  care  of  the  townsmen  with  many  requirements. 
Who,  though  scanty  their  means,  with  those  who  are  richer  and  higher 
Ever  are  wont  to  vie,  —  most  of  all,  their  wives  and  their  maidens. 

Bless,  then,  for  ever,  say  I,  the  tranquil  pursuits  of  thy  Hermann, 

And  of  the  like-minded  partner  who  by  him  will  some  day  be  chosen!” 

Thus  he  spake;  and  just  then  came  in  with  her  son  the  good  mother. 
Whom  she  led  by  the  hand,  and  placed  in  front  of  her  husband. 

^Father,”  said  she,  “how  oft  have  we  thought,  when  chatting  together, 

Ot  that  jovial  day  which  would  come,  when  Hermann  hereafter. 


40 


Choosing  a  bride  for  himself,  completed  at  length  our  enjoyment! 

Backward  and  forward  then  ran  our  thoughts;  now  this  one,  now  that  one 
Was  the  maiden  we  fix’d  on  for  him,  in  converse  parental. 

Now,  then,  that  day  is  come;  now  heaven  itself  hath  before  him 
Brought  and  pointed  out  his  bride,  and  his  heart  hath  decided. 

Did  we  not  always  then  say  he  should  choose  for  himself  unrestricted? 

Didst  thou  not  just  now  wish  that  his  feelings  might  for  some  maiden 
Clear  and  lively  be?  Now  is  come  the  hour  that  you  wish’d  for! 

Yes,  he  hath  felt,  and  chosen,  and  come  to  a  manly  decision. 

That  is  the  maiden  —  the  stranger  —  the  one  who  met  him  this  morning: 
Give  her  him;  or,  he  hath  sworn,  he  remains  in  single  condition.” 

Then  spake  to  him  his  son:  “Yes,  give  her  me.  Father;  my  heart  hath 
Clearly  and  surely  chosen ;  you  ’ll  find  her  an  excellent  daughter.” 

But  the  father  was  silent.  Then,  rising  quickly,  the  Pastor 
Took  up  the  talking,  and  said:  “A  single  moment  doth  settle 
All  concerning  man’s  life,  and  concerning  the  whole  of  his  fortune. 

After  the  longest  counsel,  yet  still  each  single  decision 

Is  but  a  moment’s  work;  but  the  wise  man  alone  takes  it  rightly. 

Perilous  is  it  always,  in  choosing,  this  thing  and  that  thing 
Still  to  consider  besides,  and  so  bewilder  the  judgment. 

Hermann  is  clear  in  his  views;  from  his  youth  long  ago  have  I  known  him; 
E’en  as  a  boy,  he  stretch’d  not  his  hands  after  this  thing  and  that  thing, 

But  what  he  wish’d  did  always  become  him,  and  firmly  he  held  it. 

Be  not  alarm’d  and  astonish’d,  that  now  at  once  is  appearing 
What  you  so  long  have  wish’d.  ’Tis  true  that  just  now  that  appearance 
YYars  not  the  form  of  the  wish  which  by  you  so  long  hath  been  cherish’d ; 
For  from  ourselves  our  wishes  will  hide  what  we  wish;  while  our  blessings 
Come  to  us  down  from  above  in  the  form  that  is  proper  to  each  one. 


Then  misjudg-e  not  the  maid,  who  the  soul  first  woke  to  emotion 
In  your  well-belov’d  son,  so  good  and  so  sensible  likewise. 

Happy  is  that  man  to  whom  her  hand  by  his  first  love  is  given. 

And  whose  fondest  wish  in  his  heart  unseen  doth  not  languish. 

Yes,  I  see  by  his  look,  his  future  lot  is  decided. 

Youth  to  full  manhood  at  once  is  brought  by  a  genuine  passion. 

He  is  no  changeling;  I  fear,  that  if  this  maid  you  deny  him, 

All  his  best  years  will  then  be  lost  in  a  life  of  deep  sorrow.” 

Quickly  then  replied  the  Druggist,  so  full  of  discretion. 

From  whose  lips  the  words  to  burst-forth  long  had  been  ready; 

“Let  us  still  only  adopt  the  middle  course  in  this  juncture; 

“Speed  with  slow  heed!”  ’t  was  the  plan  pursued  e’en  by  Caesar  Aug-ustus. 
Gladly  I  give  up  myself  to  serve  the  neighbour  I  value. 

And  for  his  use  exert  the  best  of  my  poor  understanding; 

And  above  all  does  youth  stand  in  need  of  some  one  to  guide  it. 

Let  me,  then,  go  yonder,  and  I  will  examine  the  maiden, 

And  will  question  the  people  with  whom  she  lives,  and  who  know  her. 

No  one  will  easily  cheat  me;  on  words  I  can  put  the  true  value.” 

Then  with  winged  words  the  son  immediately  answer’d: 

“Do  so,  neighbour,  and  go,  and  inquire.  At  the  same  time  my  wish  is 
That  our  respected  Vicar  should  also  be  your  companion; 

Two  such  excellent  men  will  bear  unimpeachable  witness. 

Oh!  my  father,  she  hath  not  run  wantonly  hither  —  that  maiden; 

She  is  not  one  through  the  country  to  whisk  about  on  adventures. 

And  to  ensnare  with  her  tricks  the  inexperienced  youngster. 

No,  but  the  savage  doom  of  that  all-ruinous  conflict, 

Which  is  destroying  the  world,  and  many  a  firmly-built  structure 
Hath  from  the  ground  up-torn,  this  poor  maid  also  hath  banish’d. 


42 


Are  not  noble  men  of  hig-h  birth  now  roving  in  exile? 

Princes  fly  in  disguise,  and  kings  are  doom’d  to  live  outlaw’d. 

Ah!  and  so,  too,  is  she,  the  best  of  all  her  good  sisters. 

Out  of  her  country  driv’n;  and  her  own  misfortune  forgetting, 

Aids  she  the  wants  of  others,  and  though  without  help,  yet  is  helpful. 

Great  are  the  woe  and  the  need  which  over  the  earth  are  now  spreading; 
Should  not,  then,  from  misfortune  like  this  some  good  fortune  follow? 

And  should  I  not  in  the  arms  of  my  bride,  my  trustworthy  partner. 

Reap  good  fruits  from  the  war,  as  you  from  the  great  conflagration?” 

Then  replied  the  father,  and  spake  with  words  full  of  meaning : 

“How  now,  my  son,  hath  thy  tongue  been  loosed,  which  many  a  long  year 
Stuck  to  thy  mouth,  and  moved  in  speech  but  on  rarest  occasions? 

But  I  must  prove  to-day  —  the  doom  which  threatens  each  father  — 

That  the  passionate  will  of  the  son  is  favour’d  right  gladly 
By  the  all-gentle  mother,  supported  by  each  of  her  neighbours; 

If  but  the  father  be  made  an  object  of  blame,  or  the  husband. 

But  I  will  not  resist  you,  thus  banded  together:  what  good  were  ’t? 

For,  in  truth,  I  see  here  beforehand  defiance  and  weeping. 

Go,  and  examine,  and  with  you,  in  God’s  name,  bring  me  my  daughter 
Home  to  my  house;  if  not,  he  may  then  think  no  more  of  the  maiden.” 

Thus  the  sire.  Then  exclaim’d  the  son,  with  features  so  joyous: 

“Now  before  night  shall  you  have  an  excellent  daughter  provided. 

E’en  as  the  man  must  wish,  in  whose  breast  lives  a  mind  full  of  prudence. 
Happy  will  be,  too,  then  my  good  maiden,  —  I  venture  to  hope  so. 

Yes,  she  will  ever  thank  me  for  having  both  father  and  mother 
Given  her  back  in  you,  as  sensible  children  would  have  them. 

But  I  must  tarry  no  more;  I’ll  go  and  harness  the  horses 

Quickly,  and  take  out  with  me  our  friends  on  the  track  of  my  lov’d  one. 


43 


Then  leave  it  all  to  the  men  themselves  and  their  own  good  discernment; 
Whose  decision,  I  swear,  I  will  entirely  abide  by. 

And  never  see  her  again,  until  she  is  mine  —  that  sweet  maiden.” 

Thus  went  he  out.  Meanwhile  the  others  were  weighing  with  wisdom 
Many  a  point,  and  quickly  discussing  each  matter  of  moment. 

Hermann,  then,  to  the  stables  sped,  where  the  high-mettled  horses 
Quietly  standing,  their  feed  of  clean  white  oats  were  enjoying. 

And  their  well-dried  hay,  that  was  cut  in  the  best  of  the  meadows. 

Quickly  then  in  their  mouths  he  put  the  bright  bits  of  their  bridles. 

Drew  at  once  the  straps  through  the  buckles  handsomely  plated. 

Then  the  long  broad  reins  to  the  bridle  fast’ning  securely. 

Led  the  horses  out  to  the  yard,  where  the  quick  willing  servant. 

Guiding  it  well  by  the  pole,  the  coach  had  already  drawn  forward. 

Then  with  ropes  so  clean,  and  fitted  exactly  in  measure. 

Fasten’d  they  to  the  bar  the  might  of  the  swift-drawing  horses. 

Hermann  took  the  whip,  sat  down,  and  drove  to  the  gateway. 

And  as  soon  as  the  friends  their  roomy  places  had  taken. 

Speedily  roll’d  on  the  carriage,  and  left  the  pavement  behind  them. 

Left  behind  them  the  walls  of  the  town  and  the  towers  whitely  shining. 

Thus  drove  Hermann  on  to  the  causeway  now  so  familiar. 

Quickly,  and  did  not  loiter,  but  still  drove  up  hill  and  down  hill. 

But  when  once  again  he  descried  the  tower  of  the  village. 

And  at  no  distance  once  more  lay  the  houses  garden-surrounded; 

Then  he  thought  with  himself  it  was  time  to  pull  in  the  horses. 

Shaded  by  linden  trees,  which,  in  worthy  pride  high  exalted. 

Had  for  hundreds  of  years  on  the  spot  already  been  rooted. 

There  was  a  wide-spreading  space  of  green-sward  in  front  of  the  village, 
AVhere  the  peasants  and  burghers  from  neighbouring  towns  met  for  pleasure. 


44 


There,  beneath  the  trees,  was  a  well  at  slight  depth  from  the  surface. 

As  one  went  down  the  steps,  the  eye  did  light  on  stone  benches. 

Placed  all  round  the  spring,  which  still  well’d  forth  living  waters. 

Pure,  and  inclos’d  in  low  walls,  for  the  comfort  of  those  who  were  drawing. 
There,  beneath  the  trees,  to  stay  with  the  carriage  and  horses 
Hermann  now  determin’d,  and  thus  address’d  his  companions; 

“Step  now  forth,  my  friends,  and  go,  and  gain  information. 

Whether  indeed  the  maid  be  worthy  the  hand  which  I  offer. 

Truly  I  think  it,  and  so  ye  would  bring  me  no  new  and  strange  tidings. 

Had  I  to  act  for  myself,  I  would  go  straight  on  to  the  village. 

And  with  words  short  and  few  the  good  girl  should  decide  on  my  fortune. 
And  amongst  all  the  rest  you  will  soon  be  able  to  know  her; 

For  it  were  hard  indeed  for  any  to  match  her  in  figure. 

But  I  will  give  you,  further,  some  marks  from  her  dress  clean  and  simple. 
Red  is  the  bodice  that  gives  support  to  the  swell  of  her  bosom. 

Well  laced  up;  and  black  is  the  jacket  that  tightly  lies  o’er  it; 

Neat  the  chemise’s  border  is  plaited  in  form  of  a  collar. 

Which  encircles  her  chin,  so  round,  with  the  charms  of  its  whiteness ; 

Freely  and  fairly  her  head  displays  its  elegant  oval; 

Twisted  strongly  and  oft  are  her  plaits  round  hair-pins  of  silver ; 

Full  and  blue  is  the  skirt  which  beneath  the  bodice  commences. 

And,  as  she  walks  along,  flaps  round  her  neatly-shaped  ankles. 

One  thing  still  will  I  say,  and  from  you  expressly  request  it; 

Do  not  speak  to  the  maiden,  nor  let  your  purpose  be  noticed; 

But  you  must  question  the  others,  and  listen  to  all  they  may  tell  you. 

When  you  get  tidings  sufficient  to  cpiiet  my  father  and  mother. 

Then  come  back  to  me,  and  we’ll  think  of  our  further  proceedings. 

This  is  what  I  plann’d  on  the  way,  as  we  drove  along  hither.” 


45 


Thus  he  spake.  But  his  friends  forthwith  went  on  to  the  village, 

Where  in  gardens,  and  barns,  and  houses  the  mass  of  the  people 
Crowded,  while  cart  upon  cart  along  the  wide  road  was  standing. 

There  to  the  lowing  cattle  and  teams  the  men  gave  attention; 

On  all  the  hedges  the  women  their  clothes  were  busily  drying; 

And  in  the  brook’s  shallow  water  the  children  delighted  to  dabble. 

Thus  they  went  pressing  on  through  waggons,  through  men,  and  through  cattle. 
Looking  about  right  and  left,  as  spies  despatch’d  for  the  purpose. 

Whether  they  might  not  descry  the  form  of  the  girl  they  had  heard  of: 

But  not  one  of  them  all  seem’d  to  be  that  excellent  maiden. 

Soon  they  found  the  crush  become  greater.  There,  round  the  waggons. 
Threatening  men  were  at  strife,  while  the  women  mix’d  with  them  screaming. 
Quickly  then  an  Elder,  with  steps  full  of  dignity  walking. 

Up  to  the  brawlers  came,  and  at  once  the  hubbub  was  silenced. 

As  he  commanded  peace,  and  with  fatherly  earnestness  threaten’d. 

"‘Hath  not  misfortune,”  he  cried,  “e’en  yet  so  tamed  our  fierce  spirits. 

That  we  should  understand  at  length,  and  bear  with  each  other. 

Living  in  peace,  —  though  not  each  one  by  this  rule  metes  out  his  conduct? 
Careless  of  peace,  to  be  sure,  is  the  prosperous  man;  but  shall  trouble 
Fail  to  teach  us,  no  more,  as  erst,  with  our  brother  to  quarrel? 

Nay,  to  each  other  give  place  on  the  stranger’s  soil,  and  together 
Share  what  ye  have,  that  so  ye  may  meet  with  compassion  from  others.” 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  man ;  and  they  all  in  silence  and  concord. 

Thus  appeas’d  once  more,  arranged  their  cattle  and  waggons. 

AVhen  now  the  Clergyman  heard  the  speech  which  the  Elder  had  spoken. 

And  the  pacific  views  of  the  stranger  Judge  had  discover’d. 

Straight  up  to  him  he  went,  and  address’d  him  with  words  full  of  meaning; 
“Father,  ’tis  true  that  when  men  live  in  prosperous  days  in  their  country. 

Gaining  their  food  from  the  earth,  which  far  and  wide  opes  her  bosom. 


46 


And  through  years  and  months  renews  the  gifts  that  they  wish  for, 

All  then  comes  of  itself,  and  each  in  his  own  eyes  is  wisest. 

Aye,  and  best;  and  this  is  their  standing  one  with  another. 

And  the  most  sensible  man  is  esteem’d  but  the  same  as  his  neighbour; 
Since  in  quiet  proceeds,  as  if  of  itself,  all  that  happens. 

But  should  distress  disturb  the  usual  modes  of  existence. 

Tear  the  buildings  down,  and  root  up  the  garden  and  corn-field, 

Drive  the  man  and  his  wife  from  the  site  of  their  dwelling  familiar, 

And,  as  wanderers,  drag  them  through  days  and  nights  full  of  anguish; 
Ah!  then  look  they  around  for  the  man  of  the  best  understanding. 

And  no  longer  he  utters  his  excellent  words  to  no  purpose. 

Tell  me,  father;  you  are,  no  doubt,  the  Judge  of  these  exiles. 

Who  so  quickly  did  shed  the  calm  of  peace  o’er  their  spirits. 

Yes,  you  appear  to  me  as  one  of  those  leaders  of  old-time. 

Who  the  exiled  people  through  deserts  and  wanderings  guided: 

Surely,  methinks  I  am  talking  with  Joshua,  if  not  with  Moses.” 

Then  with  earnest  look  the  Judge  address’d  him  in  answer ; 

“Truly,  our  times  may  compare  with  those  of  rarest  occurrence 
Noted  in  history’s  page,  alike  the  profane  and  the  sacred. 

He  Avho  in  days  like  these  his  life  but  from  yesterday  reckons. 

Hath  already  lived  years :  so  crowd  the  events  in  each  story. 

If  but  a  short  Avay  back  I  travel  in  thought,  on  my  head  seems 
Grey-hair’d  age  to  be  lying;  and  yet  my  strength  is  still  lively. 

Oh,  Ave  may  Avell  compare  ourselves  Avith  those  others  so  famous. 

Who,  in  solemn  hour,  in  the  fiery  bush  saAV  appearing 
God  the  Lord:  to  us,  too,  in  clouds  and  fire  he  appeareth.” 

While  noAV  the  Vicar  was  fain  the  discourse  still  further  to  lengthen^ 
Longing  to  hear  from  the  man  his  OAvn  and  his  countrymen’s  fortunes, 


47 


Quickly  with  whisper’d  words  in  his  ear  observ’d  his  companion; 

“Talk  on  still  with  the  Judge,  and  turn  the  discourse  on  the  maiden, 

While  I  am  walking  about  to  look  for  her;  and  I  will  come  back. 

Soon  as  I  find  her.”  The  Vicar  with  nod  express’d  his  approval. 

And  through  the  hedges,  and  gardens,  and  sheds  the  spy  began  seeking.” 


48 


W' 


I 


THE  AGE. 


When  the  Clergyman  thus  to  the  stranger  Judge  put  his  questions, 

What  were  his  people’s  woes,  and  how  long  from  their  land  they  were  driven; 
Then  the  man  replied:  “Of  no  short  date  are  our  troubles; 

For  of  continuous  years  the  bitter  dregs  we  have  drunken. 

All  the  more  dreadful,  because  our  fairest  hopes  were  then  blasted. 

For,  indeed,  who  can  deny  that  his  heart  was  highly  elated. 

And  in  his  freer  bosom  far  clearer  pulses  were  beating. 

When  first  rose  o’er  the  world  that  new-born  sun  in  his  splendour; 

When  we  heard  of  the  rights  of  man,  which  to  all  were  now  common. 

Heard  how  freedom  inspired,  and  equality  won  the  world’s  praises? 

Then  did  each  man  hope  to  live  for  himself;  and  the  fetters 

Seem’d  to  be  loos’d,  which  had  thrown  their  links  over  many  a  country. 

And  in  the  hand  of  sloth  and  selfishness  long  were  held  tightly. 

Did  not  each  man  look,  in  those  days  of  pressing  excitement. 


I 

il 


49 


Tow’rd  the  city  which  long  the  world  its  capital  reckon’d, 

And  which  now  more  than  ever  deserv’d  the  magnificent  title? 

Were  not,  too,  those  men  who  first  proclaim’d  the  good  tidings 
Equal  in  name  to  the  highest  beneath  the  stars  up  in  heaven? 

Did  not  ev’ry  man’s  mind,  and  spirit,  and  language  grow  greater? 

And,  as  their  neighbours,  we  first  were  fired  with  lively  emotion. 

Then  the  war  began,  and  the  columns  of  newly-arm’d  Frenchmen 
Nearer  drew;  but  they  seem’d  to  bring  with  them  nothing  but  friendship. 
Aye,  and  they  brought  it  too ;  for  the  souls  of  them  all  were  elated. 

And  for  all  with  pleasure  they  planted  the  gay  tree  of  freedom. 

Promising  each  man  his  own,  and  that  each  should  be  his  own  ruler. 

Great  was  then  the  enjoyment  of  youth,  and  great  that  of  old  age. 

And  the  gay  merry  dance  began  around  the  new  standards. 

Thus  did  they  quickly  win  —  those  Frenchmen  surpassing  in  talent  — 

First,  the  souls  of  our  men  by  their  fiery  reckless  adventure, 

Then  our  women’s  hearts  by  their  irresistible  graces. 

Light  we  deem’d  e’en  the  pressure  of  war,  with  its  wants  great  and  many; 
Since,  before  our  eyes,  bright  hope  hover’d  over  the  distance. 

And  allured  on  and  on  our  look  to  the  new-open’ d  courses. 

Oh!  how  glad  is  thet  ime,  when  along  with  his  bride  the  gay  bridegroom 
Lightly  trips  in  the  dance,  his  long’d-for  marriage  awaiting! 

But  more  glorious  still  was  the  time,  when  the  loftiest  objects 
Man  can  think  of  appear’d  nigh  at  hand,  and  of  easy  attainment. 

Then  was  ev’ry  one’s  tongue  untied,  and  loudly  they  utter’d. 

Grey-beards,  and  men,  and  youths,  their  high  intentions  and  feelings. 

But  the  heavens  were  clouded  too  soon;  for  the  prize  of  dominion. 
Strove  a  corrupted  race,  unmeet  to  produce  what  was  noble. 


Then  they  slew  one  another,  and  crush’d  with  the  yoke  of  oppression 
Their  new  neighbours  and  brothers,  and  sent  forth  the  self-seeking  masses. 
And  amongst  us  the  high  were  debauching  and  robbing  by  wholesale. 

And  the  low  were  debauching  and  robbing,  e’en  down  to  the  lowest: 

Each  man  seem’d  not  to  care,  if  but  something  were  left  for  the  morrow. 
Great  indeed  was  our  need,  and  daily  increas’d  our  oppression: 

No  one  heeded  our  cry;  of  the  day  they  were  absolute  masters. 

Then  fell  vexation  and  rage  upon  even  the  tranquilest  spirit; 

Each  one  but  thought  and  swore  for  all  his  wrongs  to  take  vengeance. 
And  for  the  bitter  loss  of  his  hope  thus  doubly  defrauded. 

Eortune  changed  at  length  to  the  side  of  the  suffering  Germans, 

And  with  hasty  marches  the  Erenchman  fled  back  tow’rd  his  country. 

Ah!  but  never  till  then  did  we  feel  the  sad  doom  of  warfare! 

Great,  and  generous,  too,  is  the  victor,  —  at  least  he  appears  so,  — 

And  he  doth  spare,  as  one  of  his  own,  the  man  he  has  vanquish’d. 

When  he  is  daily  of  use,  and  with  all  his  property  serves  him. 

But  the  fugitive  knows  no  law^;  if  but  death  he  may  ward  off; 

And  without  any  regard  he  quickly  destroys  what  is  precious, 

Since  his  spirit  is  heated,  and  desperation  brings  forward 
Out  of  the  depth  of  his  heart  each  lurking  villainous  purpose. 

Nought  thinks  he  sacred  now,  but  he  robs  it.  His  wildness  of  passion 
Rushes  by  force  upon  woman,  and  takes  a  delight  in  all  horrors. 

All  around  he  sees  death,  and  in  cruelty  spends  his  last  moments, 

Einding  enjoyment  in  blood,  and  in  misery’s  loud  lamentations. 

Wrathful  then  in  our  men  rose  up  the  spirit  of  daring. 

Both  to  avenge  the  lost,  and  to  save  their  remaining  possessions. 

All  then  seiz’d  on  their  arms,  allured  by  the  haste  of  the  flying, 

And  by  their  faces  so  pale,  and  their  looks  so  timid  and  doubtful. 
Ceaselessly  now  rang  out  the  sound  of  the  sullen  alarm-bell. 


Nor  did  the  danger  before  them  repress  their  furious  courage. 

Quickly  into  weapons  the  peaceful  tools  of  the  farmer 

Now  were  turn’d;  with  blood  the  fork  and  scythe  were  all  dripping. 

None  shew’d  grave  to  the  foe  in  his  fall,  and  none  shew’d  forbearance; 
Every  where  raved  courage,  or  weakness  malignant  as  timid. 

O  may  I  never  again  in  such  contemptuous  madness 

Look  upon  man!  The  beast  in  his  rage  is  a  pleasanter  object. 

Ne’er  let  him  speak  of  freedom,  as  though  himself  he  could  govern! 

Loos’d  from  their  bands  appear,  when  the  checks  are  gone  that  restrain’d  him, 
All  bad  things,  which  the  law  into  holes  and  corners  had  driven.” 

“Excellent  Sir,”  replied  the  Vicar,  with  emphasis  speaking, 

“If  you  have  misjudg’d  man,  I  cannot  on  that  account  blame  you; 

Evil  enough,  to  be  sure,  have  you  borne  from  that  wild  undertaking. 

Still,  if  you  would  but  look  once  more  through  the  days  of  your  sorrow. 

You  would  yourself  confess,  how  often  you  saw  what  was  good,  too,  — 
Many  an  excellent  thing,  which  remains  in  the  heart  deeply  hidden. 

Should  not  danger  incite  it,  and  man  by  need  be  press’d  forward 
E’en  as  an  angel,  or  guardian-god,  to  seem  to  his  neighbour.” 

Smiling  then  replied  the  Judge  so  aged  and  worthy; 

“Sensibly  do  you  remind  me,  as  oft,  when  a  house  has  been  burnt  down. 
Men  to  the  owner  recal  in  his  sadness  the  gold  and  the  silver. 

Which,  though  molten  and  scatter’d,  lies  still  preserv’d  in  the  rubbish; 

Little  it  is,  to  be  sure,  but  even  that  little  is  precious; 

And  the  poor  man  digs  for  it,  and  when  he  has  found  it,  rejoices. 

And  just  so  am  I  glad  to  turn  my  thoughts,  full  of  brightness. 

Back  to  those  few  good  deeds  which  memory  still  loves  to  cherish. 

Yes,  I  have  seen,  I  will  not  deny  it,  foes  joining  in  concord. 

That  they  might  save  the  town  from  threatening  evil;  seen  friends,  too. 


52 


t 


And  dear  parents  and  children  on  what  was  impossible  venture; 

Seen  the  stripling  at  once  grow  up  into  manhood,  —  the  grey-beard 
Young  once  more,  —  and  e’en  the  child  into  stripling  develope; 

Aye,  and  the  weaker  sex,  as  ’tis  our  custom  to  call  it. 

Shew  itself  valiant  and  strong,  and  for  presence  of  mind  justly  famous. 
Thus  let  me  now  relate,  above  all,  that  action  most  noble. 

Which  with  high  soul  a  maiden  perform’d  —  the  excellent  virgin  — 

Who  in  the  large  farm-house  stay’d  behind  along  with  the  young  girls; 
Since  the  men  had  all  gone,  like  the  rest,  to  fight  with  the  strangers. 

Then  came  into  the  yard  a  troop  of  wandering  rabble. 

Bent  upon  plunder,  and  quickly  rush’d  into  the  women’s  apartment. 

There  they  mark’d  the  form  of  the  well-grown  beautiful  maiden. 

And  those  lovely  girls,  —  or,  to  call  them  more  properly,  children. 

Then,  with  wild  passion  possess’d,  they  made  an  assault  without  feeling 
On  that  trembling  band  and  on  the  magnanimous  maiden. 

But  from  the  side  of  one  she  instantly  tore  the  bright  sabre. 

Brought  it  down  with  might,  and  before  her  feet  he  fell  bleeding. 

Then  with  manly  strokes  the  girls  she  valiantly  rescued. 

Wounding  four  more  of  the  robbers,  though  these  escap’d  death  by  flying 
Then  she  secured  the  yard,  and  with  weapon  in  hand  waited  succor.” 

When  the  Clergyman  thus  had  heard  the  praise  of  the  maiden, 

Hope  for  the  friend  he  loved  at  once  mounted  high  in  his  bosom; 

And  he  was  on  the  point  of  asking  her  subsequent  fortunes. 

Whether  along  with  the  people  she  now  were  in  sorrowful  exile. 

But  with  hasty  steps  just  then  the  Druggist  came  to  them. 

Pull’d  the  Clergyman’s  arm,  and  with  whisper’d  words  thus  address’d  him: 
“Surely  at  last  I  have  found  the  maid  out  of  many  a  hundred. 

As  the  description  ran!  So  come  yourself  to  behold  her. 


53 


And  bring  with  you  the  Judge,  to  tell  us  still  further  about  her.” 

Purposing  this,  they  turn’d;  but  the  Judge  meanwhile,  had  been  summon’d. 

By  his  own  people  away,  who,  in  want  of  counsel,  required  him. 

But  the  Vicar  at  once  prepared  to  follow  the  Druggist, 

Up  to  the  gap  in  the  hedge;  and  the  latter,  cunningly  pointing. 

Said:  “Do  you  see  her  —  the  maiden?  The  doll  she  has  swaddled  already, 
And  well  enough  do  I  know,  now  I  see  it  again,  the  old  satin. 

And  the  old  cushion-cover,  which  Hermann  brought  in  the  bundle. 

These  are  significant  marks,  and  the  rest  are  all  in  accordance. 

For  the  red  bodice  affords  support  to  the  swell  of  her  bosom. 

Well  laced  up;  and  there  lies  the  jacket  of  black  tightly  o’er  it; 

Neat  the  chemise’s  border  is  plaited  in  form  of  a  collar. 

Which  encircles  her  chin  so  round  with  the  charms  of  its  whiteness; 

Freely  and  fairly  her  head  displays  its  elegant  oval; 

And  the  thick  plaits  are  twisted  and  fasten’d  round  hair-pins  of  silver. 

Though  she  is  sitting,  we  still  can  see  the  height  of  her  stature. 

And  the  blue  skirt,  which  in  full  and  numerous  folds  from  the  bosom 
Gracefully  waves  below,  and  extends  to  her  neatly-shaped  ankle. 

Without  doubt  it  is  she.  So  come,  that  we  may  examine. 

Whether  she  virtuous  be  and  good,  —  a  maiden  domestic.” 

Then  the  Vicar  replied,  as  he  look’d  at  the  sitting  girl  keenly: 

“That  she  enchanted  the  youth  is  to  me,  most  surely,  no  wonder: 

For  she  stands  proof  to  the  eye  of  the  man  of  finest  perception. 

Happy,  to  whom  mother  Nature  a  pleasing  person  hath  given! 

It  doth  commend  him  always,  and  nowhere  is  he  a  stranger; 

Each  one  likes  to  be  near  him,  and  each  one  would  gladly  detain  him, 

If  but  the  grace  of  his  manner  to  that  of  his  person  be  suited. 

Be  well  assured  the  youth  has  succeeded  in  finding  a  maiden 
Who  o’er  the  future  days  of  his  life  will  shed  glorious  lustre. 


54 


And  with  the  truth  and  vigour  of  woman  at  all  times  support  him. 

Thus,  sure,  perfection  of  body  the  soul  also  keepeth  in  brightness, 

And  thus  a  vigorous  youth  of  a  happy  old-age  still  gives  promise.” 

But  to  that  made  reply  the  Druggist,  inclin’d  to  be  doubtful: 

“Yet  doth  appearance  more  often  deceive;  I  trust  not  the  outside; 

Since  in  times  past  so  oft  I  have  proved  the  truth  of  the  proverb, 

“Ere  thou  hast  eaten  a  bushel  of  salt  with  thy  new-made  accjuaintance. 
Lightly  thou  must  not  trust  him;  ’tis  time  alone  can  assure  thee. 

What  thy  position  is  with  him,  and  what  thy  friendship’s  endurance.” 

Let  us,  then,  first  address  to  honest  people  some  c[uestions, 

Who  both  know  the  maid,  and  will  give  us  intelligence  of  her.” 

“I,  too,  approve  of  foresight,”  the  Pastor  replied,  as  he  follow’d, 

“Nor  do  we  woo  for  ourselves;  and  wooing  for  others  is  ticklish.” 

And  upon  that  they  went  to  meet  the  good  Judge,  who  was  coming 
Back  again  up  the  road,  intent,  as  before,  on  his  business. 

Then  the  Vicar  at  once  address’d  him  with  words  of  precaution: 

“Say!  we  have  seen  a  maiden,  who,  in  the  garden  close  by  here, 

Under  the  apple-tree  sits,  and  makes  up  clothing  for  children 
Out  of  some  worn-out  satin,  receiv’d,  I  suppose,  as  a  present. 

We  were  well  pleas’d  with  her  form;  she  seems  one  of  those  full  of  spirit. 
What,  then,  you  know  of  her,  tell  us;  we  ask  from  a  laudable  motive.” 

When  now-  the  Judge  straigtway  went  into  the  garden  to  see  her, 
“Nay,  ye  know  her,”  he  said,  „already;  for  when  I  related 
Of  the  most  noble  deed  Avhich  that  young  maiden  accomplish’d. 

When  she  seiz’d  the  sword,  and  herself  and  those  with  her  defended. 

This  was  she!  You  may  see  by  her  look  that  robust  is  her  nature. 

But  as  good  as  strong;  for  she  nurs’d  her  aged  relation 
Up  to  the  day  of  his  death,  Avhen  torn  away  by  affliction 


55 


For  the  distress  of  the  town,  and  fear  for  his  threaten’d  possessions. 

Aye,  and  with  silent  courage  she  bore  her  heart’s  bitter  anguish 
At  her  bridegroom’s  death,  who,  a  youth  of  generous  feeling. 

In  the  first  glow  of  high  thoughts,  for  precious  freedom  to  struggle. 

Even  departed  to  Paris,  and  terrible  death  soon  encounter’d: 

For,  as  at  home,  so  there  he  opposed  the  tyrant  and  plotter.” 

Thus,  then,  spake  the  Judge.  With  thanks  both  were  going  to  leave  him. 
When  the  Pastor  drew  forth  a  gold-piece,  (the  silver  already 
Had,  some  hours  before,  left  his  purse  in  kind  distribution. 

When  he  saw  the  poor  exiles  in  sorrowful  crowds  passing  by  him). 

And  to  the  Judge  he  held  it  out,  and  said;  “This  poor  farthing 
Share  thou  amongst  the  needy,  and  God  to  the  gift  grant  an  increase!” 

Yet  did  the  man  refuse,  and  said:  “Nay,  but  many  a  dollar 

And  much  clothing  and  stuff  from  the  wreck  of  our  fortunes  we  rescued 

And  shall  again,  I  trust,  go  back  before  all  is  exhausted.” 

Then  replied  the  Vicar,  and  into  his  hand  press’d  the  money, 

“No  one  should  wait  to  give  in  these  days  of  trouble,  and  no  one 
Should  refuse  to  accept  what  to  him  in  kindness  is  offer’d. 

No  one  knows,  how  long  he  may  hold  his  peaceful  possessions. 

No  one,  how  long  still  in  foreign  lands  he  may  wander. 

And  be  without  the  field  and  the  garden,  which  ought  to  maintain  him.” 

“Aye,  indeed,”  then  observ’d  the  Druggist,  that  keen  man  of  business, 
“Did  now  my  pocket  but  hold  any  money,  you  quickly  should  have  it. 
Large  coin  or  small  alike;  for  your  people’s  wants  must  be  many. 

Yet  will  I  not  let  you  go  without  a  gift;  that  my  wishes 

Still  may  be  seen,  however  the  deed  may  fall  short  of  the  wishes.” 

Thus  he  spake,  and  forward  the  leathern  pouch  well  embroider’d 
Drew  by  the  string,  in  which  was  kept  his  tobacco,  and  op’ning 


56 


Nicely  shared  it  with  him ;  and  many  a  pipe-full  was  found  there. 

^‘Small  is  the  gift,”  he  added;  to  which  the  Judge  quickly  answer’d: 

“Nay,  but  good  tobacco  to  travellers  ever  is  welcome;” 

And  upon  that  the  Druggist  began  to  praise  his  Kanaster. 

But  the  good  Vicar  then  drew  him  away  £ind  the  Judge  they  now  quitted. 
“Haste  we,”  said  the  man  of  good  sense;  “the  youngster  is  waiting 
Painfully;  let  him  then  hear  with  all  possible  speed  the  good  tidings.” 

So  they  hasten’d,  and  came,  and  found  their  young  friend  on  the  carriage 
Leaning  there,  beneath  the  lindens.  The  horses  were  stamping 
Wildly  upon  the  turf,  and  he  held  them  in  check,  and  stood  thoughtful. 
Silently  looking  before  him,  nor  saw  his  friends  till  the  moment 
When  they  came  to  him  with  shouts  and  signs  of  their  gladly  returning. 
Even  when  still  at  a  distance,  the  Druggist  began  to  address  him; 

Yet  they  still  approach’d  unperceiv’d.  Then  his  hand  the  good  Vicar 
Seiz’d,  and  said,  thus  snatching  away  the  word  from  his  comrade: 

“Joy  to  thee  now,  young  man !  Thine  eye  and  thy  heart  truly  guided 
Rightly  have  chosen.  Good  luck  to  thee  and  thy  youth’s  blooming  partner! 
Worthy  is  she  of  thee!  Then  come,  and  turn  round  the  carriage. 

That  we  may  drive  with  all  speed,  till  we  come  to  the  end  of  the  village. 
And,  having  woo’d  her,  at  once  may  take  to  your  house  the  good  maiden.” 

Yed  did  the  youth  stand  still,  and  without  any  tokens  of  pleasure 
Heard  the  messenger’s  word,  though  of  heavenly  power  to  give  comfort. 
Then  with  a  deep  sigh  he  said:  “We  came  with  hurrying  carriage, 

And  we  shall  drive  back  home,  perhaps,  with  shame  and  full  slowly. 

For,  while  waiting  here,  a  load  of  care  hath  come  o’er  me. 

Doubt,  and  suspicion,  and  all  that  afflicts  a  lover’s  heart  only. 

Think  ye,  that  if  we  but  go,  the  maiden  will  surely  come  with  us. 

Since  we  are  rich,  and  she  a  poor  and  wandering  exile? 


57 


Poverty,  undeserv’d,  e’en  makes  men  prouder.  Contented 

Seems  the  maiden,  and  active,  and  so  has  the  world  at  her  summons. 

Think  ye  there  ever  grew  up  a  woman  of  beauty  and  feeling 
Such  as  hers,  without  luring  some  good  youth  on  to  adore  her? 

Think  ye  she  hath  not  yet  her  heart  to  love  ever  open’d? 

Go  not  thither  so  fast;  we  might,  to  our  shame  and  confusion. 

Turn  back  slowly  home  our  horses.  The  fear  doth  possess  me 
That  some  youth  owns  her  heart,  and  the  excellent  maiden  already 
Hath  both  plighted  her  hand,  and  her  true  love  breath’d  to  that  bless’d  one. 
Ah!  then  indeed  shall  I  stand  before  her  asham’d  of  my  offer.” 

To  console  him,  the  Vicar  his  mouth  already  had  open’d. 

But,  in  his  talkative  way,  his  companion  did  thus  interrupt  him : 

“Surely  in  former  times  we  should  not  have  thus  been  embarrass’d. 

When  in  its  own  proper  way  each  business  was  brought  to  completion. 

Then,  if  e’er  for  their  son  a  bride  the  parents  had  chosen. 

First,  a  friend  of  the  house  in  whom  they  trusted  was  summon’d. 

He,  then,  as  wooer  was  sent,  and  begg’d  to  confer  with  the  parents 
Of  the  selected  bride;  and,  dress’d  in  his  finest  apparel. 

After  dinner  on  Sunday  he  paid  the  good  burgher  a  visit, 

Interchanging  with  him  at  first  on  general  topics 

Friendly  words,  and  well  skill’d  to  direct  and  lead  round  the  subject. 

After  much  beating  about,  the  daughter  at  length  was  commended. 

And  the  man  and  his  house  from  whom  he  receiv’d  his  commission. 

I 

Sensible  people  perceiv’d  his  object;  the  sensible  envoy 
Soon  perceiv’d  their  wishes,  and  might  explain  himself  further. 

If  they  disliked  the  offer,  there  then  was  no  painful  refusal. 

But  if  it  proved  successful,  the  wooer  was  then  ever  after 
First  to  be  seen  in  the  house  at  each  domestic  rejoicing: 

For  the  good  married  couple  their  whole  lite  through  did  remember 


58 


That  the  first  knots  were  tied  by  the  hands  commission’d  to  tie  them. 

But  all  that  is  now,  with  other  such  excellent  customs, 

Quite  gone  out  of  fashion,  and  each  for  himself  is  the  wooer. 

Wherefore  let  each  himself  in  person  receive  the  refusal 
Destin’d  for  him,  and  stand  with  shame  before  the  proud  maiden.” 

“Be  it,  e’en  as  it  may!”  replied  the  youth,  who  had  scarcely 
Heard  all  the  words,  and  in  silence  had  form’d  his  own  resolution. 

“I  will  in  person  go,  and  in  person  learn  what  my  doom  is. 

Out  of  the  maiden’s  mouth,  in  whom  my  trust  is  the  greatest 
Man  ever  yet  tow’rd  w^oman  within  his  bosom  did  cherish. 

What  she  says,  must  be  true,  and  according  to  reason;  I  know  it. 

If  for  the  last  time  now  I  must  see  her,  yet  once,  and  once  only. 

Will  I  the  open  gaze  of  that  black  eye  go  to  encounter. 

Though  to  my  heart  she  may  ne’er  be  press’d,  yet  that  breast  and  those  shoulders 
Will  I  yet  once  more  see,  which  my  arm  so  longs  to  encircle; 

Once  more  will  see  that  mouth,  from  which  one  kiss  and  one  “Yes”  would 
Make  me  happy  for  ever,  - — •  one  “No”  for  ever  undo  me. 

But  now  leave  me  alone;  you  must  not  wait,  but  returning 

Go  to  my  father  and  mother,  that  they  may  learn  from  your  story 

That  their  son  did  not  err,  and  that  there  is  worth  in  the  maiden. 

And  so  leave  me  alone.  By  the  foot-path  over  the  hill-side 
Will  I  go  back  by  a  nearer  way.  And  O  that  my  dear  one 
I  may  with  joy  and  speed  lead  home  I  But  perhaps  b)"  that  foot-path 
I  may  slink  lonely  home,  and  never  again  tread  it  gladly.” 

Thus  he  spake,  and  put  the  reins  in  the  hand  of  the  Vicar, 

Who  receiv’d  them  with  skill  and  command  o’er  the  foam-cover’d  horses. 

Quickly  mounted  the  carriage,  and  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  driver. 


59 


But  thou  still  didst  tarry,  thou  prudent  neighbour,  and  saidest: 

“Gladly,  my  friend,  with  soul  and  mind  and  heart  would  I  trust  thee ; 

But  the  body  and  limbs  are  not  preserv’d  most  securely. 

When  to  the  secular  rein  the  ghostly  hand  makes  pretension.” 

But  thou  didst  smile  at  that,  thou  sensible  Vicar,  and  saidest: 

“Take  but  your  seat,  and  your  body  commit  to  me,  e’en  as  your  spirit. 
Long  ago  has  this  hand  been  train’d  to  wield  the  reins  deftly. 

And  this  eye  is  well  skill’d  to  hit  the  turn  most  artistic. 

For  ’twas  our  custom  at  Strasburg  to  drive  full  oft  in  the  carriage. 

When  I  accompanied  thither  our  good  young  Baron ;  and  daily 

Roll’d  through  the  sounding  gateway  our  carriage,  with  me  as  the  driver, 

Out  on  the  dusty  roads  far  away  to  the  meadows  and  lime-trees. 

Right  through  the  midst  of  the  croAvds  who  the  live-long  day  spend  in  wmlking.” 

Half  assured,  upon  that  the  Druggist  mounted  the  carriage. 

Sitting  as  one  who  prepared  a  prudent  leap  to  accomplish ; 

And  the  steeds  gallop’d  home,  with  thoughts  intent  on  the  stable. 

Under  their  powerful  hoofs  were  clouds  of  dust  streaming  upward. 

Long  stood  the  youth  there  yet,  and  watching  the  dust  as  it  mounted. 
Watch’d  it  still  as  it  fell,  and  stood  devoid  of  reflection. 


6o 


DOROTHEA. 


As  the  traveller,  ere  the  sun  sank  below  the  horizon, 

Fix’d  once  more  his  eyes  on  the  orb  now  fast  disappearing. 

Then  in  darkling  copse  and  along  the  side  of  the  mountain 
Sees  its  hovering  form,  and  where’er  his  glance  he  now  turneth. 

There  it  speeds  on,  and  shines,  and  wavers  in  glorious  colours; 

4 

So  before  Hermann’s  eyes  did  the  lovely  form  of  the  maiden 
Softly  move  on,  and  seem’d  in  the  path  to  the  corn-field  to  follow. 

But  from  his  dream  of  rapture  he  woke,  and  slowly  proceeded 
Tow’rd  the  village,  and  then  was  enraptur’d  again,  for  again  came. 
Meeting  him  there  in  the  way,  the  glorious  maiden’s  tall  figure. 

Closely  he  mark’d  her,  —  it  was  no  ghost,  but  her  own  very  person. 
Bearing  in  either  hand  her  larger  jug  by  the  handle 
And  a  smaller  one,  thus  she  walk’d  to  the  well,  full  of  business. 
Joyfully  went  he  up  to  meet  her;  the  sight  of  her  gave  him 


6i 


Courage  and  strength;  and  thus  he  spake  to  his  wondering  dear  one; 

“Do  I  then  find  thee  here,  brave  maiden,  so  soon  again  busy. 

Helping  others,  and  gladly  still  comforting  all  that  is  human? 

Say,  why  com’st  thou  alone  to  the  spring  which  lies  at  such  distance. 

While  with  the  village- water  the  others  all  are  contented? 

This,  I  suppose,  must  be  of  particular  virtue  and  flavour. 

Perhaps  to  that  sick  woman,  so  faithfully  rescued,  thou  bear’st  it.” 

Then  the  good  maiden  at  once  with  friendly  greeting  thus  answer’d: 
“Surely  my  coming  thus  here  to  the  well  is  already  rewarded. 

Since  I  find  the  good  youth  who  before  with  so  much  supplied  us; 

For,  as  the  gifts  themselves,  the  sight  of  the  giver  is  pleasant. 

Come  now,  and  see  for  yourself,  who  hath  reap’d  the  fruits  of  your  kindness; 
And  receive  the  calm  thanks  of  all  to  whom  you  gave  comfort. 

But,  that  you  now  may  learn  at  once  my  object  in  comings 
Here  to  draw,  where  the  spring  flows  pure  and  ever  unceasing. 

This  is  the  reason  I  give.  Our  thoughtless  men  in  the  villag'e 
Everywhere  have  disturb’d  the  water,  with  horses  and  oxen 
Trampling  right  through  the  spring  which  supplies  the  whole  population. 

Just  in  the  same  way,  too,  have  they  soil’d,  with  washing  and  cleaning. 

All  the  troughs  in  the  village,  and  all  the  wells  have  corrupted; 

For  to  provide  with  all  speed  for  himself  and  the  want  next  before  him. 

This  alone  each  man  studies,  and  thinks  not  of  what  may  come  after.” 

Thus  she  spake,  and  then  at  once  to  the  broad  steps  descended 
With  her  companion,  and  there  they  sat  them  both  on  the  low  wall, 

Down  by  the  springe  To  draw  the  water  she  then  did  lean  over; 

And  of  the  other  jug  he  laid  hold,  and  leant  over  likewise: 

And  their  mirror’d  forms  they  saw  in  the  bright  blue  of  heaven, 

Hov’ring  with  nods  to  each  other,  and  greeting,  like  friends,  in  the  mirror. 


62 


“Let  me  drink,”  then  said  the  youth  in  the  joy  of  his  feelings; 

And  she  held  him  the  jug.  Then  both  of  them  trustingly  rested, 

Leaning  over  the  vessels;  and  then  her  friend  she  thus  question’d: 

“Say,  how  find  I  thee  here,  without  the  carriage  and  horses. 

Far  away  from  the  spot  where  I  saw  thee  at  first?  What  has  brought  thee?” 

Thoughtfully  Hermann  look’d  on  the  ground,  then  rais’d  up  his  glances 
Quickly  tow’rds  the  girl,  and  with  friendly  gaze  in  her  dark  eye 
Felt  himself  calm  and  assured.  Yet  to  speak  of  love  to  her  now  was 
Put  quite  out  of  his  power;  her  eye  not  love  was  now  looking, 

But  clear  sense,  and  demanded  such  sense  in  their  whole  conversation. 

Thus  he  was  soon  collected,  and  said  with  confidence  to  her: 

“Let  me  speak,  my  child,  and  give  a  reply  to  your  question. 

It  was  for  you  I  came  here;  and  why  should  I  wish  to  conceal  It? 

For  with  both  my  parents,  who  love  me,  I  live  and  am  happy, 

*  Faithfully  helping  them  manage  their  house  and  other  possessions. 

As  their  only  son;  and  manifold  are  our  emplo3^ments. 

All  the  fields  are  my  care,  • —  the  house,  my  diligent  father’s,  — 

And  my  active  mother  gives  life  to  the  whole  of  the  business. 

But  thou  hast  doubtless,  like  others,  observ’d  how  sorely  the  servants. 
Whether  through  lack  of  thought,  or  of  honesty,  trouble  the  mistress. 

Ever  compell’d  to  change,  and  take  one  fault  for  another. 

Wherefore  m}^  mother  long  wish’d  In  her  house  to  keep  such  a  servant 
As  not  with  hand  alone,  but  also  with  heart  would  assist  her. 

In  the  place  of  the  daughter  she  lost  long  ago,  to  her  sorrow. 

Now,  when  I  saw  thee  to-day  by  the  waggon  so  joyously  active. 

Saw  the  strength  of  thine  arm  and  th}^  limbs’  perfection  of  soundness,  — 
When  to  thy  words  I  listen’d,  so  full  of  good  sense.  It  all  struck  me. 

And  I  hasten’d  back  home,  to  my  parents  and  friends  for  that  service 


63 


To  commend  the  stranger.  But  now  I  am  come  to  inform  thee 
Of  their  wishes  and  mine.  Forgive  me  my  faltering  language.” 

“Shrink  not,”  then  she  said,  “from  speaking  what  yet  should  be  spoken; 
No  offence  do  you  give,  but  with  grateful  feelings  I  ’ve  listen’d. 

Speak  it  then  plainly  out;  your  words  can  never  affright  me. 

You  would  like  to  engage  me  as  maid  to  your  father  and  mother. 

Over  your  well-furnish’d  house  intrusted  with  full  supervision; 

And  you  believe  that  in  me  you  Avould  find  a  capable  maiden. 

Well  adapted  for  work,  and  not  of  a  rough  disposition. 

Briefly  your  offer  was  made,  —  as  brief  shall  be,  too,  my  answer. 

Yes,  I  will  go  Avith  you,  and  folloAA”  where  destiny  leads  me. 

Here  my  duty  is  done;  the  new-born  infant’s  poor  mother 
I  have  restored  to  her  OAvn,  and  they  all  rejoice  in  their  rescue. 

Most  of  them  here  already,  the  rest  soon  hoping  to  join  them. 

All  of  them  think,  indeed,  in  a  few  short  days  they  shall  hasten 
Back  to  their  home;  for  so  is  the  exile  ever  self-flatter'd. 

But  with  hopes  light  as  this  I  dare  not  cheat  my  own  bosom 
In  these  sorrowful  days,  which  still  portend  days  of  sorroAv. 

For  the  bands  of  the  Avorld  are  loosen’d,  and  Avhat  shall  re-bind  them. 

But  the  most  urgent  need,  such  as  that  Avhich  o’er  us  is  hanging? 

If  in  the  worthy  man’s  house  I  can  gain  my  bread  as  a  servant. 

Under  the  eye  of  his  Avife  so  industrious,  gladly  I  ’ll  do  it; 

Since  the  wandering  maiden  hath  still  a  repute  that  is  doubtful. 

Yes,  I  Avill  go  Avith  you,  so  soon  as  the  jugs  of  the  strangers 
I  have  restored,  and,  further,  have  ask’d  from  those  good  friends  a  blessinm 
Come,  you  must  see  them  yourself,  and  straight  from  their  hands  must  receive  me.” 

Glad  was  the  youth  to  hear  the  Avilling  maiden’s  decision. 

Doubting  AAdiether  he  noAV  should  not  OAAm  the  truth  fully  to  her; 


64 


1 


But  it  appear’d  to  him  best  to  leave  her  still  to  her  fancy, 

And  to  conduct  her  home,  and  there  first  woo  her  affection. 

Ah !  and  he  mark’d  the  gold  ring,  Avhich  the  maiden  wore  on  her  finger, 
And  let  her  still  speak  on,  while  he  paid  to  her  words  deep  attention. 

“Let  us  now  hasten  back,”  she  thus  continued,  “the  maidens 
Always  fall  into  blame,  who  linger  too  long  at  the  fountain. 

Yet  by  the  running  spring  to  chat  is  still  so  delicious!” 

Thus  they  arose,  and  look’d  yet  once  more,  standing  together. 

Into  the  well;  and  sweet  was  the  longing  that  seiz’d  on  their  bosoms. 

Silently,  then,  the  maid,  taking  hold  of  both  jugs  by  the  handle. 
Mounted  again  the  steps,  while  Hermann  folloAv’d  his  lov’d  one. 

Wishing  to  take  a  jug,  and  bear  his  share  of  the  burden. 

“Nay’,  let  it  be,”  she  said,  “all  loads  are  lightest  when  even; 

And  I  must  not  be  serv’d  by  the  master  who  soon  will  command  me. 
Look  not  so  serious  at  me,  as  though  my  fortune  were  doubtful. 
Woman  should  learn  in  time  to  serve, —  ’tis  her  natural  calling; 

For  through  serving  only  attains  she  at  length  to  commanding. 

And  to  that  well  earn’d  power  she  wields  by  right  in  the  household. 
Gladly  the  sister  serves  her  brother,  the  daughter  her  parents; 

And  so  her  life  is  still  a  continual  coming  and  going. 

Still  a  lifting  and  bearing,  arranging  and  doing  for  others. 

Well  for  her,  if  her  habits  be  such  that  no  path  is  too  irksome; 

That  the  hours  of  the  night  are  to  her  as  the  hours  of  the  day-time ; 
That  her  work  never  seems  too  fine,  or  her  needle  too  tiny; 

But  that  herself  she  entirely  forgets,  and  can  live  but  in  others. 

Then,  as  a  mother,  in  truth  she  needs  one  and  all  of  the  virtues, 

When  in  her  sickness  the  babe  awakes  her,  for  nourishment  craving. 
Weak  as  she  is,  and  care  to  her  pains  is  abundantly  added. 


Twenty  men  together  would  not  endure  so  much  trouble: 

Nor  are  they  bound;  but  they  ’re  bound,  when  they  see  it,  to  shew  themselves  thankfulT 

Thus  she  spake;  and  now,  with  her  thoughtful  silent  companion. 

Passing  on  through  the  gardens  she  came  to  the  site  of  the  barn-floor. 

Where  the  poor  mother  lay,  whom  she  left  so  glad  with  her  daughters. 

Those  very  girls  she  had  saved,  —  the  pictures  of  innocent  beauty. 

Both  of  them  then  walk’d  in,  and  soon  in  the  other  direction. 

Leading  a  child  in  each  hand,  the  honour’d  Judge  also  enter’d. 

These  had  been  hitherto  lost  to  the  eyes  of  their  sorrowing  mother. 

But  by  the  worthy  Elder  had  now  in  the  crowd  been  discover’d; 

And  they  eagerly  sprang  to  kiss  their  dearly-lov’d  mother. 

And  to  rejoice  in  their  brother,  their  yet  unknown  little  playmate. 

On  Dorothea  next  they  sprang,  and  kiss’d  her  right  friendly. 

Asking  for  bread,  and  fruit,  and  for  something  to  drink,  above  all  things. 

Then  she  handed  the  water  round,  and  of  it  the  children 

Drank,  and  so  did  the  mother  and  daughters,  and  so  did  the  Elder. 

All  were  pleas’d  with  their  draught,  and  prais’d  the  excellent  water. 

Which  a  slight  mineral  taste  for  man  made  refreshing  and  wholesome. 

Then  with  serious  looks  the  maid  replied,  and  address’d  them : 

“This  is  perhaps  the  last  time,  my  friends,  that  I  ever  shall  carry 
Round  to  your  mouths  the  jug,  and  moisten  your  lips  with  its  water. 

But  when  henceforth  ye  quaff  a  draught  in  the  heat  of  the  midday. 

And  in  the  shade  enjoy  your  rest  and  the  pure-gushing  fountain. 

Oh,  then  think  too  of  me,  and  my  friendly  service  amongst  you. 

Which  from  feelings  of  love  I  render’d,  e’en  more  than  of  kindred. 

Through  the  rest  of  my  life  shall  I  own  all  the  kindness  you  shew’d  me. 

Truly  I  grieve  to  leave  you;  though  now  is  each  to  his  neighbour 
More  a  burden  than  comfort ;  and  still  in  the  land  of  the  straneer 


66 


Must  we  all  look  to  die,  if  return  to  our  home  be  denied  us. 

See,  here  stands  the  youth  to  whom  we  owe  thanks  for  the  presents,  — 
Both  for  the  baby’s  clothing  here,  and  those  viands  so  welcome. 

Hither  he  comes  to  beg  that  in  his  house  he  may  see  me. 

Acting  as  servant  there  to  his  rich  and  excellent  parents; 

And  I  have  not  refus’d;  for  a  maiden  must  serve  in  all  cases. 

And  to  sit  quiet  at  home  and  be  waited  on  she  would  deem  irksome. 
Therefore  I  follow  him  gladly;  in  sense  the  youth  seems  not  deficient. 

Nor  will  his  parents  be,  —  as  befits  their  wealthy  condition. 

Wherefore  now,  my  dear  friend,  farewell!  and  long  may  the  baby 
Live  to  delight  your  heart,  who  now  in  such  health  looks  up  to  you. 

But  whene’er  to  your  bosom  he  ’s  press’d  in  these  bright- colour’d  wrappers. 
Oh,  then  think  of  the  youth  so  kind,  who  with  them  supplied  us. 

And  will  henceforth  to  me  too,  your  kinswoman,  give  food  and  clothing. 

And  do  you,  excellent  Sir,”  (she  turn’d  to  the  Judge  while  thus  speaking,) 
“Take  my  thanks  for  having  so  often  been  to  me  a  father.” 

And  upon  that  she  kneel’d  down  to  the  new-born  infant’s  good  mother. 
Kiss’d  the  weeping  woman,  and  took  the  blessing  she  whisper’d. 

Meanwhile  to  Hermann  said  the  Judge  most  worthy  of  honour; 

“Well  may’st  thou  claim,  my  friend,  to  be  number’d  with  sensible  landlords. 
Who  with  capable  persons  are  anxious  to  manage  their  household. 

For  I  have  mark’d  full  oft,  that  sheep,  and  horses,  and  cattle 
Are  with  the  nicest  care  by  touching  and  handling  examin’d; 

While  that  human  aid,  which,  if  able  and  good,  saveth  all  things. 

But  destroys  and  demolishes  all  by  its  wrong  interference. 

That  men  take  to  their  house  by  chance  and  accident  only. 

And,  when  too  late,  repent  of  an  over-hasty  arrangement. 

But  you  seem  to  know  this;  for  you  have  chosen  a  maiden 
Who  is  good,  in  your  house  to  serve  yourself  and  your  parents. 


67 


Keep  her  well;  for  while  she  an  interest  takes  in  your  business, 

You  will  not  miss  the  sister  you  lost,  nor  your  parents  their  daughter.” 

Meanwhile  many  came  in,  —  near  relatives  of  the  good  mother,  — 
Bringing  many  a  gift,  and  news  of  more  suitable  lodging. 

All  heard  the  maiden’s  resolve,  and  gave  their  blessing  to  Hermann, 

With  significant  looks,  and  thoughts  of  peculiar  meaning. 

For  the  poor  exiles  there  were  whispering  one  to  another: 

“If  of  the  master  a  bridegroom  come,  then  indeed  is  he  rescued.” 

Then  did  Hermann  take  hold  of  her  hand,  and  said  to  her  quickly: 

“Let  us  begone;  the  day  is  declining,  the  town  is  far  distant.” 

Then,  with  liveliest  talk,  the  women  embraced  Dorothea; 

Hermann  drew  her  away ;  yet  with  many  a  kiss  was  she  greeted. 

But  all  the  children  still,  with  screams  and  terrible  weeping. 

Clung  to  her  clothes,  and  would  not  their  second  mother  relinquish. 

But  the  women  thus  spake,  first  one,  then  another,  commanding: 

“Silence,  children!  she  ’s  going  away  to  the  town,  and  will  bring  you 
Plenty  of  good  sugar-bread,  which  your  little  brother  there  order’d. 

When  past  the  baker’s  shop  by  the  stork*  he  lately  was  carried: 

And  you  will  soon  see  her  back,  with  the  paper-bags  handsomely  gilded.” 
Thus,  then,  the  children  releas’d  her :  and  Hermann,  though  not  without  trouble. 
Tore  her  away  from  their  arms,  and  their  far-off  beckoning  kerchiefs. 


*  The  reader  who  has  not  lived  in  Germany  may  require  to  be  informed,  that  according  to  the  nursery 
belief  in  that  country,  all  babies  are  carried  to  the  house,  and  carefully  dropped  down  the  chimney,  by  the 
storks;  instead  of  being  brought  in  the  Doctor’s  pocket,  as  in  England. 


68 


HERMANN  AND  DOROTHEA. 

T  hus  the  two  went  away  tow’rd  the  sun  now  deelining, 

Who,  storm-threat’ning,  in  clouds  his  form  had  deeply  envelop’d, 

And  from  the  veil,  now  here,  now  there,  with  fiery  glances 
Shot  forth  over  the  land  the  gleams  of  the  ominous  lightning. 

“Oh!  may  this  threatening  weather,”  thus  Hermann  said,  “not  soon  bring  us 
Storms  of  hail  and  furious  rain  I  for  fine  is  the  harvest.” 

And  they  both  rejoiced  at  the  sight  of  the  corn  high  and  waving. 

Which  well  nigh  reach’d  up  to  the  tall  figures  then  passing  through  it. 

Then  the  maiden  said  to  the  friend  who  was  guiding  her  foot-steps ; 
“Kind  one,  whom  first  I’ve  to  thank  for  a  pleasant  portion-safe  shelter. 

While  ’neath  the  open  sky  the  storm  threatens  many  exiles. 

Tell  me  now,  first  of  all,  and  teach  me  to  know  both  your  parents, 


09 


Whom  to  serve  in  future  with  all  my  soul  I  am  anxious. 

For,  if  one  knows  his  master,  he  better  can  give  satisfaction. 

When  he  thinks  of  the  things  which  to  him  seem  of  greatest  importance. 
And  upon  which  his  mind  he  set  with  most  earnest  attention. 

Wherefore  tell  me,  I  pray,  how  to  win  your  father  and  mother.” 

Then  replied  thereto  the  good  youth  of  clear  understanding: 

“Oh,  how  right  do  I  deem  thee,  thou  good  and  excellent  maiden. 

Asking  first,  as  thou  hast,  concerning  the  views  of  my  parents! 

For  in  my  father’s  service  in  vain  till  now  have  I  striven. 

While  to  his  business,  as  though  ’twere  my  own,  myself  I  devoted. 

Early  and  late  to  the  field  and  the  vineyard  giving  attention. 

But  my  mother  I  pleas’d  well  enough,  for  she  knew  how  to  prize  it. 

Aye,  and  thee,  too,  no  less  will  she  think  the  most  excellent  maiden. 

If  thou  take  care  of  the  house,  as  though  ’twere  thine  own  to  attend  to. 
But  with  my  father  not  so ;  for  he  loves  appearances  likewise. 

Do  not  take  me,  good  girl,  for  a  son  that  is  cold  and  unfeeling. 

If  so  soon  I  unveil  my  father  to  thee,  quite  a  stranger. 

Nay  but  I  swear  that  this  is  the  first  time  such  an  expression 
E’er  hath  escaped  from  my  tongue,  which  is  not  given  to  prattling. 

But,  since  thou  dost  from  my  bosom  elicit,  each  proof  of  reliance. 

There  are  some  graces  in  life  for  which  my  father  is  anxious,  — 
Outward  marks  of  love,  as  well  as  respect,  which  he  wishes ; 

And  he  would  be,  perhaps,  pleas’d  with  quite  an  inferior  servant. 

Who  could  make  use  of  this,  and  would  angry  be  with  the  better.” 

Cheerfully  then  she  said,  as  along  the  darkening  pathway 
Now  with  a  quicker  step  and  lighter  movement  she  hurried, 

‘‘Surely  to  both  at  once  I  hope  to  give  ample  contentment; 

Since  thy  mother’s  mind  accords  with  my  own  disposition. 

And  to  external  graces  from  youth  I  have  ne’er  been  a  stranger. 


Those  French  neighbours  of  ours,  in  former  times,  of  politeness 
Made  no  little  account;  to  the  nobleman  and  to  the  burgher. 

Aye,  and  the  peasant,  ’twas  common,  and  each  to  his  own  did  commend  it. 
And  just  so  amongst  us,  on  the  German  side,  e’en  the  children 
Brought  with  hissings  of  hand  and  curtseyings  every  morning 
Wishes  of  joy  to  their  parents,  and  all  the  day  long  would  repeat  them. 

All  which  I  then  did  learn,  to  which  from  my  youth  I’m  accustom’d,  — - 
And  which  comes  from  my  heart,  to  my  elder  master  I’ll  practise. 

But  now  who  shall  tell  me,  to  thee  what  should  be  my  behaviour,  — 

Thee  their  only  son,  and  to  me  in  future  a  master?” 

Thus  she  spake,  and  just  then  they  arriv’d  at  the  foot  of  the  pear-tree. 
Glorious  shone  the  moon,  at  her  full,  down  on  them  from  heaven; 

For  it  was  night,  and  the  sun’s  last  gleam  was  totally  hidden. 

Thus  were  spread  out  before  them  in  masses,  the  one  by  the  other. 

Lights  as  bright  as  the  day,  and  shades  of  the  night  that  are  darkest. 

And  that  friendly  question  was  heard  with  pleasure  by  Hermann 
Under  the  noble  tree,  in  the  spot  so  dear  to  his  fancy. 

And  which  that  self-same  day  had  witness’d  his  tears  for  the  exile. 

Thus  while  there  beneath  it  they  sat  for  a  short  time  to  rest  them. 

Seizing  the  maiden’s  hand,  the  enamour’d  youth  said  in  answer; 

“Let  thine  own  heart  tell  thee,  and  follow  it  freely  in  all  things.” 

But  no  further  word  did  he  risk,  though  the  hour  so  much  favour’d; 

For  he  fear’d  that  his  haste  might  only  bring  a  refusal. 

Ah!  and, he  felt,  too,  the  ring  on  her  finger,  —  that  token  so  painful. 

Thus,  then,  sat  they  still  and  in  silence  beside  one  another. 

But  the  maiden  began,  and  said,  “How  sweet  do  I  find  it 
Watching  the  glorious  light  of  the  moon!  The  day  is  scarce  brighter. 
Yonder  I  clearly  see  in  the  town  the  houses  and  homesteads. 

And  in  the  gable  a  windoAv;  methinks  the  panes  I  can  number.” 


“What  thou  seest,”  then  replied  the  youth,  restraining  his  feelings, 

“Is  the  place  where  we  dwell,  and  down  to  which  I  will  lead  thee; 

And  that  window  there  in  the  roof  belongs  to  my  chamber. 

Which  will,  perhaps,  now  be  thine,  for  some  change  we  shall  make  in  the  household. 
These  are  our  fields,  now  ripe  for  the  harvest  beginning  to-morrow. 

Here  in  the  shade  will  we  rest,  and  enjoy  our  meal  in  the  noon-tide. 

But  let  us  now  go  down,  proceeding  through  vineyard  and  garden; 

For  see  yonder!  the  storm  is  coming  on  heavily  o’er  us. 

Flashing  lightning,  and  soon  will  extinguish  the  full-moon  so  lovely.” 

So  they  arose,  and  pursued  their  way  o’er  the  fields  that  lay  under. 

Through  the  magnificent  corn,  in  the  night’s  clear  splendour  rejoicing. 

Till  to  the  vineyard  next  they  came,  and  enter’d  its  darkness. 

And  down  its  many  slabs  he  thus  fain  to  conduct  her, 

AVhich  were  laid  there  unhewn,  as  steps  in  the  leaf-cover’ cl  pathway. 

Slowly  wmlk’d  she  down,  now  resting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 

AVhile  with  wavering  lustre  the  moon  through  the  leave  overlook’d  them. 

Till,  in  storm-clouds  conceal’d,  it  left  the  couple  in  darkness. 

Carefully  thus  the  strong  youth  the  dependent  maiden  supported: 

But,  not  knowing  the  path,  and  unused  to  the  rough  stones  along  it. 

Missing  her  step,  she  twisted  her  foot,  and  well-nigh  had  fallen. 

Hastily  then  stretching  out  his  arm,  the  youth,  quick  and  clever. 

Held  his  beloved  one  up;  when  she  gently  sank  on  his  shoulder. 

Bosom  reclining  on  bosom,  and  cheek  on  cheek.  Yet  he  stood  there 
Stiff  as  a  marble-statue,  his  earnest  wishes  restraining. 

Still  not  pressing  her  closer,  and  still  her  dear  weight  supporting. 

Thus,  then,  he  felt  that  glorious  burden  —  the  warmth  of  her  young  heart. 

And  the  balm  of  her  breath,  on  his  lips  exhaling  its  fragrance. 

And  with  the  feeling  of  man  bore  woman’s  heroical  greatness. 


But  she  conceal’d  her  pain,  and  said  in  jocular  language; 

“That  betokens  trouble,  —  so  say  all  scrupulous  people,  — 

When,  on  ent’ring  a  house,  not  far  from  the  threshold  the  foot  twists. 
Truly,  I  well  could  have  wish’d  for  myself  a  happier  omen. 

But  let  us  wait  a  short  time,  that  thou  be  not  blamed  by  thy  parents 
For  the  poor  limping  maid,  and  be  thought  an  incompetent  landlord.” 


73 


rf  • 


I 


I 


1.- 


PROSPECT. 


Muses,  ye  who  the  heart’s  true  love  so  gladly  have  favour’d, 

Who  thus  far  on  his  way  the  excellent  youth  have  conducted. 

And  to  his  bosom  have  press’d  his  maiden  before  the  betrothal. 

Help  still  further  to  perfect  the  tie  of  the  love-worthy  couple. 

Parting  at  once  the  clouds  which  over  their  happiness  gather! 

But,  before  all,  relate  what  within  the  house  is  now  passing. 

There  for  the  third  time  already  th’ impatient  mother  returning 
Enter’d  the  men’s  room,  which  first  she  had  left  with  anxiety,  speaking 
Of  the  approaching  storm,  and  the  moon’s  quick  veiling  in  darkness. 
Then  of  her  son’s  remaining  abroad,  and  the  dangers  of  night-time; 
While  she  well  chided  the  friends,  who,  without  a  word  to  the  maiden, 
Wooing  her  in  his  behalf,  from  the  youth  so  quickly  had  parted. 


75 


“Make  not  the  evil  worse,”  replied  the  dispirited  father, 

“For  we  ourselves,  thou  seest,  tarry  here,  and  abroad  do  not  venture.” 

But  their  neighbour  began  to  speak,  as  he  sat  there  so  tranquil ; 

“Truly  in  hours  of  disquiet,  like  these,  I  always  feel  grateful 
To  my  departed  father,  who  rooted  up  all  my  impatience. 

While  I  was  yet  a  boy,  and  left  not  a  fibre  remaining; 

Aye,  and  not  one  of  the  sages  so  quickly  learnt  to  wait  cjuiet.” 

“Say,”  replied  the  Vicar,  “what  means  the  old  man  had  recourse  to.” 
“That  will  I  gladly  tell  you,  since  each  for  himself  may  well  mark  it,” 
Answer’d  then  the  neighbour.  “I  stood  one  Sunday  impatient. 

When  I  was  yet  a  boy,  for  the  carriage  eagerly  waiting. 

Which  was  to  take  us  out  to  the  Avell  ’neath  the  shade  of  the  lime-trees. 
Still  it  came  not,  and  I,  like  a  weasel,  ran  backward  and  forward, 

Stepping  up  and  down,  and  from  window  to  door,  without  ceasing. 

Oh,  how  my  hands  did  tingle!  and  how  I  was  scratching  the  table. 
Tramping  and  stamping  about,  and  ready  to  burst  into  crying! 

All  was  seen  by  the  tranquil  man;  but  at  length,  when  I  acted 
Quite  too  foolish  a  part,  by  the  arm  he  quietly  took  me. 

Leading  me  up  to  the  window,  with  words  of  dubious  purport; 

‘Seest  thou,  closed  for  the  day,  the  carpenter’s  workshop  o’er  yonder? 

It  wall  be  open’d  to-morrow,  and  plane  and  saw  will  be  busy; 

And  so  will  pass  the  industrious  hours,  from  morning  till  evening. 

But  bethink  thee  of  this;  the  morrow  will  one  day  be  coming. 

When  the  master  will  stir  him,  with  all  his  workmen  about  him. 

Making  a  coffin  for  thee,  to  be  quickly  and  deftly  completed ; 

And  over  here  all  so  busy  that  house  of  planks  they  Avill  carry. 

Which  must  at  last  receive  the  impatient  alike  and  the  patient, 

And  a  close-pressing  roof  very  soon  to  bear  is  appointed. 

All  straightway  in  my  mind  I  saw  thus  really  happen. 


76 


Saw  the  planks  join’d  together,  the  sable  colours  preparing, 

And  once  more  sitting  patient  in  quiet  aAvaited  the  carriage. 

Thus,  whenever  I  now  see  others  in  doubtful  expectance. 

Awkwardly  running  about,  I  needs  must  think  of  the  coffin.” 

Smiling,  the  Vicar  replied:  “The  picture  of  death  ever  busy 
Strikes  not  the  wise  with  fear,  nor  is  view’d  as  an  end  by  the  pious: 

Back  into  life  it  urges  the  one,  for  its  dealings  instructed. 

And  for  the  other  in  sorrow  it  strengthens  the  hope  of  the  future. 

Death  becomes  life  to  both.  And  so  it  was  wrong  in  your  father 
Death  to  present  as  death  to  the  eye  of  sensitive  boyhood. 

Nay,  rather  shew  to  youth  the  worth  of  old  age  ripe  in  honours. 

And  to  the  old  man  sheAV  youth;  that  so  the  ne’er-ending  circle 
Both  may  enjoy,  and  life  in  life  may  fully  accomplish’d.” 

But  now  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  shew’d  the  magnificent  couple; 
And  astonishment  seiz’d  the  friends  and  affectionate  parents 
At  the  form  of  the  bride,  nearly  equalling  that  of  the  bridegroom. 

Yea,  the  door  seem’d  too  small  to  allow  the  tall  figures  to  enter. 

Which,  as  they  came  on  together,  were  now  seen  crossing  the  threshold. 
Hermann  with  hurried  Avords  presented  her  then  to  his  parents; 

“Here,”  he  said  “is  a  maiden  brought  into  your  house,  my  dear  father. 

Just  as  you  wish’d:  gwe  her  welcome;  for  that  she  deserves.  And,  dear  mother 
She  hath  already  inquired  the  whole  extent  of  our  business: 

So  that  you  see  how  well  henceforth  she  deserves  to  be  near  you.” 

Hastily  then  aside  he  drew  the  excellent  Vicar, 

Saying:  “Most  Avorthy  Sir,  noAV  help  me  in  this  my  dilemma 

Quickly,  and  loosen  the  knots,  whose  entanglement  makes  me  quite  shudder. 

For  I  have  not  yet  dared  as  my  bride  to  sue  for  the  maiden. 

But  as  a  servant  she  Aveens  she  is  come  to  the  house;  and  I  tremble. 


Lest  she  refuse  to  stay,  as  soon  as  we  think  about  marriage. 

But  let  it  quickly  be  decided;  no  longer  in  error 

Shall  she  remain;  nor  can  I  any  longer  endure  to  be  doubtful. 

Haste  then,  and  shew  in  this  case  the  wisdom  for  which  we  revere  thee.” 

Then  the  Pastor  at  once  went  away,  and  return’d  to  the  party. 

But  already  the  soul  of  the  maiden  was  grievously  troubled 
Through  the  father’s  address,  who  at  once,  with  kindly  intention 
Words  of  sprightly  purport  in  joking  manner  had  spoken: 

“Aye,  this  is  pleasant,  my  child!  I  am  glad  to  see  that  my  son  is 

Bless’ d  with  good  taste,  like  his  sire,  who  (as  those  of  his  day  knew)  did  always 

Lead  the  finest  girl  to  the  dance,  and  at  length  brought  the  finest 

Into  his  house,  as  his  wife,  —  and  that  was  my  Hermann’s  dear  mother. 

For  by  the  bride  a  man  chooses  it  needs  not  long  to  discover. 

What  a  spirit  he  ’s  of,  and  whether  he  feels  his  owm  value. 

But  you  required,  I  suppose,  but  short  time  to  form  your  conclusion; 

For,  sure,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  ’s  not  such  a  hard  one  to  follow.” 

Hermann  but  slightly  caught  these  words,  but  his  limbs  to  the  marrow 
Quiver’d,  and  all  at  once  the  whole  circle  was  hush’d  into  silence. 

But  the  excellent  maiden  by  words  of  such  cruel  mocking, 

(As  they  appear’d,)  being  hurt  and  deeply  wounded  in  spirit. 

Stood  there,  her  cheeks  to  her  neck  suffused  with  quick-spreading  blushes. 

Yet  her  feelings  she  check’d,  and  her  self-possession  regaining. 

Though  not  entirely  concealing  her  pain,  thus  spake  to  the  old  man; 

“Truly,  for  such  a  reception  your  son  quite  fail’d  to  prepare  me, 

Painting  to  me  the  ways  of  his  father,  that  excellent  burgher. 

And  I  am  standing,  I  know,  before  you,  the  man  of  refinement. 

Who  with  judgment  behaves  to  each  one,  as  suits  their  positions. 

But  for  the  poor  girl,  methinks,  you  have  not  sufficient  compassion. 


78 


Who  has  now  cross’d  your  threshold,  and  comes  prepared  for  your  service; 
Else  with  such  bitter  mocking  you  surely  would  not  have  shown  me, 

How  far  my  lot  from  your  son  and  from  yourself  is  now  sever’d. 

Poor,  indeed,  and  with  this  small  bundle  I  come  to  your  dwelling. 

Which  is  furnish’d  with  all  that  marks  a  prosperous  owner; 

But  I  well  know  myself,  and  thoroughly  feel  my  position. 

Is  it  noble  to  make  me  at  once  the  butt  of  such  mocking 

As,  on  the  very  threshold,  well-nigh  from  your  house  drove  me  backward?” 

Much  was  Hermann  alarm’d,  and  made  signs  to  his  friend  the  good  Pastor, 
That  he  should  interfere,  and  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  error. 

Quickly  the  prudent  man  stepp’d  up,  and  saw  in  the  maiden 
Silent  chagrin,  and  pain  subdued,  and  tears  on  her  eyelids. 

Then  his  soul  urged  him  on,  not  at  once  to  end  the  confusion. 

But  still  further  to  test  the  afflicted  heart  of  the  maiden: 

And  upon  that  he  address’d  her  with  words  of  searching  intention: 

“Surely,  thou  foreign  maiden,  thou  didst  not  wisely  consider, 

When  with  all  haste  thou  resolvedst  to  be  a  servant  to  strangers. 

What  it  is  to  live  with  a  master,  subject  to  orders; 

For,  but  once  strike  the  hand,  and  thy  whole  year’s  doom  is  decided; 

And  the  “Yes”  but  once  spoken  to  much  endurance  will  bind  thee. 

Truly,  wearisome  days  are  not  the  worst  part  of  service. 

Nor  the  bitter  sweat  of  work  everlastingly  pressing; 

Since  the  freeman,  if  active,  will  labour  as  hard  as  the  bond-slave. 

But  to  endure  the  whims  of  the  master  who  blames  without  reason, 

Wantmg  now  this,  now  that,  with  himself  still  ever  at  discord; 

Aye,  and  the  pettish  mood  of  the  mistress  who  soon  waxes  angry. 

Join’d  to  the  children’s  rough  and  insolent  want  of  good  manners; 

This  is  hard  to  bear,  and  still  be  performing  your  duty 
Undelaying  and  prompt,  and  without  any  sullen  objections. 


Truly,  thou  seem’st  not  well-suited  for  this,  since  the  jokes  of  the  father 
Wound  thee  so  deeply  at  once;  and  yet  there  is  nothing  more  common 
Than  to  teaze  a  girl  about  finding  a  )"outh  to  her  fancy.” 

Thus  he  spake:  but  his  cutting  words  were  felt  by  the  maiden. 

And  she  no  longer  refrain’d,  but  her  feelings  display’d  themselves  strongly. 
Causing  her  bosom  to  heave,  while  groanings  burst  their  way  from  it; 

And  with  hot  gushing  tears  she  at  once  address’d  him  in  answer: 

“Oh !  the  wise  man  ne’er  knows,  when  he  thinks  in  our  pain  to  advise  us. 
How  little  power  his  cold  words  can  have  to  release  our  poor  bosoms 
From  the  woes  which  the  hand  of  imperious  doom  lays  upon  them. 

Happy  are  ye,  and  glad;  and  how  should  a  joke  then  e’er  wound  you? 

But  by  the  man  who  is  sick  e’en  the  gentle  touch  is  felt  painful. 

No,  ’twould  avail  me  nothing,  e’en  though  my  disguise  had  succeeded. 

Let,  then,  at  once  be  seen,  what  later  had  deepen’d  my  sorrow. 

And  had  brought  me,  perhaps,  to  misery  silently- wasting. 

Let  me  again  begone!  In  the  house  no  more  may  I  tarry. 

I  will  away,  and  go  to  seek  my  poor  people  in  exile. 

Whom  I  forsook  in  their  trouble,  to  choose  for  my  own  profit  only. 

This  is  my  firm  resolve;  and  now  I  may  dare  to  acknowledge 
That  which  else  in  my  heart  full  many  a  year  had  lain  hidden. 

Yes,  the  father’s  mocking  hath  deeply  wounded  me;  not  that 
I  am  peevish  and  proud,  (which  would  ill  become  a  poor  servant,) 

But  that,  in  truth  I  felt  in  my  heart  a  strong  inclination 

Tow’rds  the  youth  who  to-day  had  appear’d  as  my  saviour  from  evil. 

For  when  first  on  the  road  he  had  gone  and  left  me,  his  image 
Linger’d  still  in  my  mind,  and  I  thought  of  the  fortunate  maiden. 

Whom,  perhaps,  as  his  bride  in  his  heart  he  already  might  cherish. 

And  when  I  found  him  again  at  the  w^ell,  the  sight  of  him  pleas’d  me 
Not  at  all  less  than  if  I  had  seen  an  anorel  from  heaven; 


8o 


And  my  consent  was  so  glad,  when  he  ask’d  me  to  come  as  a  servant! 
Yet  my  heart,  it  is  true,  on  the  way  (I  will  freely  confess  it) 

Flatter’d  me  with  the  thought  that  I  might  perhaps  earn  his  affection. 

If  I  should  some  day  prove  a  stay  the  house  could  not  dispense  wdth. 
Oh!  but  now  for  the  first  time  I  see  the  risk  I  encounter’d. 

When  I  would  dwell  so  near  to  an  object  of  silent  devotion. 

Now  for  the  first  time  I  feel  how  far  a  poor  maiden  is  sever’d 
From  the  youth  who  is  rich,  although  she  were  never  so  prudent. 

All  this  now  have  I  told,  that  you  may  not  my  heart  misinterpret. 

Hurt  as  it  was  by  a  chance  which  has  brought  me  back  to  my  senses. 
For,  while  my  silent  wishes  were  hid,  I  must  needs  have  expected 
That  I  should  next  see  him  bring  his  bride  to  her  home  here  conducted ; 
And  how  then  had  I  borne  my  unseen  burden  of  sorrow? 

Happily  have  I  been  warn’d,  and  happily  now  from  my  bosom 
Has  the  secret  escaped,  while  yet  there  were  cures  for  the  evil. 

But  I  have  spoken  enough.  And  now  no  more  shall  ought  keep  me 
Here  in  the  house,  where  I  stand  in  shame  alone  and  in  anguish. 

Freely  confessing  my  love  and  the  hope  which  sprang  from  my  folly;  — 
Not  the  night,  far  and  wide  in  brooding  clouds  now'  envelop’d. 

Not  the  roaring  thunder  (I  hear  it)  shall  keep  me  from  going; 

No,  nor  the  gush  of  the  rain,  which  abroad  drives  down  with  such  fury. 
Nor  the  whistling  storm.  All  this  ere  now  have  I  suffer’d 
In  our  sorrowful  flight,  with  the  enemy  closely  pursuing: 

And  I  will  now  go  forth  again,  as  I  ’ve  long  been  accustom’d. 

Caught  by  the  whirlwind  of  time,  to  part  from  all  I  could  cherish. 

Fare  ye  well!  I  can  stay  no  longer,  but  all  is  now  over.” 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  again  to  the  door  was  quickly  returning, 

Still  keeping  under  her  arm  the  little  bundle  brought  with  her. 

But  with  both  her  arms  the  mother  laid  hold  of  the  maiden. 


Clinging  round  her  waist,  and  cried  in  wond’ring  amazement: 

“Say,  what  mean’st  thou  by  this,  and  these  tears  now  shed  to  no  purpose? 
No,  I  will  not  permit  thee;  —  thou  art  my  son’s  own  betroth’d  one.” 

But  the  father  stood  there  displeas’d  with  Avhat  was  before  him. 

King  the  weeping  women,  and  spoke  with  the  words  of  vexation: 

“This,  then,  befalls  me  at  last,  as  the  greatest  test  of  forbearance. 

That  at  the  close  of  the  day  what  is  most  unpleasant  should  happen! 

For  I  find  nothing  so  hard  to  bear  as  the  weeping  of  women. 

And  the  passionate  scream,  that  with  eager  confusion  commences 
Scenes  which  a  little  good  sense  might  soften  down  with  more  comfort. 
Irksome  is  it  to  me  still  to  look  on  this  wondrous  beginning: 

Ye  must  conclude  it  yourselves,  for  I  to  my  bed  am  now  going.” 

And  he  quickly  turn’d  round,  and  hasten’d  to  go  to  the  chamber. 
Where  his  marriage-bed  stood,  and  where  he  was  still  wont  to  rest  him. 
But  his  son  held  him  back,  and  said  with  words  of  entreaty: 

“Father,  make  not  such  haste,  nor  be  angry  because  of  the  maiden. 

I  alone  have  to  bear  the  blame  for  all  this  confusion. 

Which  our  friend,  by  dissembling,  made  unexpectedly  greater. 

Speak,  then,  worthy  Sir,  for  to  you  is  the  matter  confided. 

Heap  not  up  trouble  and  grief,  but  rather  bring  all  to  good  issue; 

For,  in  truth,  I  might  never  in  future  so  highly  respect  you. 

If  but  pleasure  in  mischief  you  practis’d  for  glorious  wisdom.” 

Speaking  then  with  a  smile,  the  worthy  Vicar  made  answer: 

“Say,  what  cleverness,  then,  could  have  won  so  fair  a  confession 
From  the  good  maiden  here,  and  her  heart  before  us  uncover’d? 

Has  not  thy  sorrow  at  once  been  turn’d  into  bliss  and  rejoicing? 

Wherefore  but  speak  for  yourself:  what  need  of  a  stranger’s  explaining?” 
Hermann  now  coming  forward  with  joyful  words  thus  address’d  her: 

“Do  not  repent  of  thy  tears,  nor  of  pains  so  fleeting  as  these  are; 


82 


For  they  but  bring  my  joy,  and  thine  too,  I  hope,  to  perfection. 

Not  to  hire  as  a  servant  the  stranger,  the  excellent  maiden. 

Came  I  up  to  the  well;  —  I  came  thy  dear  love  to  sue  for. 

O  but  out  on  my  bashful  glance !  which  thy  heart’s  inclination 
Was  not  able  to  see,  but  saw  in  thine  eye  nought  but  friendship. 

When  in  the  calm  well’s  mirror  thou  gavest  me  there  such  kind  greeting. 
Merely  to  bring  thee  home  the  half  of  my  happiness  gave  me. 

And  thou  art  now  completing  it  quite:  my  blessing  be  on  thee!” 

Then  did  the  maiden  look  at  the  youth  with  deepest  emotion, 

And  refus’d  not  th’  embrace  and  kiss,  —  the  crown  of  rejoicing. 

When  they  at  length  afford  to  lovers  the  long-wish’d  assurance 
Of  their  life’s  future  joy,  which  now  seems  of  endless  duration. 

All  meanwhile  to  the  rest  had  been  explain’d  by  the  Vicar. 

But  the  maiden  came  with  bows  of  hearty  affection 

Gracefully  made  to  the  father;  and  kissing  his  hand,  though  retracted. 

Said:  “It  is  surely  but  right  that  you  pardon  a  poor  surpris’d  maiden. 

First  for  her  tears  of  pain,  and  now  for  her  tears  of  rejoicing. 

Oh!  forgive  me  that  feeling,  forgive  me  this  present  one  also; 

And  let  me  comprehend  my  happiness  newly  imparted. 

Yes,  let  the  first  annoyance  which  in  my  confusion  I  caus’d  you 

Be  now  at  once  the  last!  That  service  of  faithful  affection 

Which  was  your  maid’s  bounden  duty,  your  daughter  shall  equally  render.” 

Hiding  then  his  tears,  the  father  cjuickly  embraced  her; 

And  the  mother  came  up  with  kisses  familiar  and  hearty. 

Shaking  her  hand  in  her  own,  while  the  weeping  women  were  silent. 

Speedily  then  laid  hold  the  good  and  Intelligent  Vicar, 

First,  of  the  father’s  hand,  and  drew  the  wedding-ring  off  it, 

(Not  so  easily,  though;  for  the  plump  round  finger  detain’d  it,) 

Then  the  mother’s  ring  he  took,  and  affianced  the  children ; 


83 


Saying:  “Once  more  let  the  rings  of  gold  discharge  their  glad  office, 
Closely  securing  a  tie  which  exactly  resembles  the  old  one. 

Deeply  this  youth  is  pierced  through  and  through  wdth  love  of  the  maiden, 
And  the  maiden  hath  own’d  that  the  youth,  too,  hath  call’d  forth  her  wishes. 
Wherefore  I  here  betroth  you,  and  bless  you  for  ever  hereafter. 

With  your  parents’  consent,  and  with  this  true  friend  to  bear  witness.” 

And  the  neighbour  at  once  bow’d  his  head,  with  wishes  for  blessings. 
But  when  the  reverend  man  the  golden  ring  was  now  placing 
On  the  maiden’s  finger,  he  saw  with  amazement  the  other. 

Which  before,  at  the  well,  had  been  view’d  with  sorrow  by  Hermann: 

And  he  said  thereupon  with  words  of  friendly  jocoseness: 

“What!  for  the  second  time  art  thou  now  betroth’d?  May  the  first  j’outh 
Not  appear  at  the  altar,  with  words  forbidding  the  marriage!” 

But  she  said  in  reply:  “Oh,  let  me  to  this  dear  memento 
Consecrate  one  short  moment;  for  well  did  the  good  man  deserve  it. 

Who,  when  departing,  gave  it,  and  never  came  back  for  the  nuptials. 

All  was  foreseen  by  him  at  the  time  when  his  longing  for  freedom. 

And  his  desire  to  act  in  the  scenes  of  a  novel  existence, 

Urged  him  quickly  to  Paris,  where  dungeon  and  death  he  encounter’d. 

“Live,  and  be  happy,”  said  he;  “I  go;  for  all  that  is  earthly 
Now  is  changing  at  once,  and  all  seems  doom’d  to  be  sever’d. 

In  the  most  settled  states  the  primary  laws  are  departing; 

Property  is  departing  from  even  the  oldest  possessor; 

Friend  is  departing  from  friend,  and  love  from  love,  in  like  manner. 

I  now  leave  thee  here;  and  where  I  may  e’er  again  find  thee. 

Who  can  tell?  Perhaps  this  may  be  our  last  conversation. 

Man,  it  is  rightly  said,  on  earth  is  only  a  stranger; 

More  a  stranger  than  ever  has  each  one  in  these  days  been  render’d. 

Even  our  soil  is  ours  no  longer;  our  treasures  are  wand’ring; 


84 


Gold  and  silver  are  melted  from  forms  which  time  had  made  sacred. 

All  is  moving,  as  though  the  world,  long  form’d,  would  dissolve  back 
Into  Chaos  and  night,  and  be  form’d  anew  for  the  future. 

Thou  wilt  for  me  keep  thy  heart;  and  if  we  again  meet  hereafter, 

Over  the  wreck  of  the  world,  we  both  shall  then  be  new  creatures, 

Quite  transform’d  and  free,  and  no  longer  dependent  on  fortune ; 

For  what  fetters  could  bind  the  man  who  survived  such  an  epoch? 

But  if  it  is  not  to  be,  that  happily  free’d  from  these  dangers 
We  should  one  day  again  with  joy  return  to  each  other; 

Oh;  then  keep  in  thy  thoughts  my  image,  still  hov’ring  before  thee; 

That  thou  with  equal  courage  for  joy  and  grief  may’st  be  ready. 

Should  a  new  home  appear,  and  new  connexions  invite  thee. 

Then  enjoy  thou  with  thanks  whate’er  by  thy  fate  is  provided; 

Love  them  well  that  love  thee,  and  for  kindness  shew  thyself  grateful 
Yet  e’en  then  set  thy  foot  but  lightly,  where  all  is  so  changeful; 

For  the  redoubled  pain  of  new  loss  still  near  thee  is  lurking. 

Holy  be  that  thy  day!  Yet  esteem  not  life  of  more  value 
Than  ought  else  that  is  good;  and  all  that  is  good  is  deceitful.” 

Thus  he  spake,  and  before  me  the  noble  one  ne’er,  reappeared. 

All  meanAvhile  have  I  lost,  and  a  thousand  times  thought  of  his  warning 
And  now  I  think  of  his  words,  when  so  splendidly  love  is  preparing 
Joy  for  me  here,  and  disclosing  most  glorious  hopes  for  the  future. 

Oh!  forgive  me,  my  excellent  friend,  if  I  tremble  while  leaning 
E’en  on  thine  arm!  So  deems  the  sailor,  at  length  safely  landed. 

That  the  firmly-set  base  of  the  solid  ground  is  still  rocking.” 

Thus  she  spake,  and  placed  the  rings,  one  close  to  the  other. 

But  the  bridegroom  said,  with  noble  and  manly  emotion; 

“All  the  firmer  be,  in  this  shaking  of  all  things  around  us, 

Dorothea,  this  tie!  Yes,  we  will  continue  still  holding, 


85 


Firmly  holding  ourselves  and  the  good  things  we  have  in  possession. 

For  in  wavering  times  the  man  whose  views  also  waver 
Does  but  increase  the  evil,  and  spread  it  further  and  further; 

While  he  who  firmely  stands  to  his  views  mouls  the  world  to  his  wishes. 

Ill  becomes  it  the  German  the  fear-inspiring  commotion 
Still  to  prolong,  and  still  to  be  staggering  hither  and  thither. 

“This  is  ours!”  so  let  us  assert,  and  maintain  our  assertion! 

Men  of  resolute  minds  are  still  ever  valued  the  highest. 

Who  for  God  and  the  law,  for  parents,  for  wives,  and  for  children 
Battled,  against  the  foe  together  standing,  till  vanquish’d. 

Thou  art  mine,  and  now  what  is  mine  is  more  mine  than  ever. 

Not  with  vexation  of  heart  will  I  keep,  and  with  sorrow  enjoy  it. 

But  wdth  courage  and  might.  And  should  our  foes  threaten  at  present. 
Or  in  future,  equip  me  one  thyself  and  hand  me  my  weapons 
Knowing  that  thou  wilt  attend  to  my  house,  and  affectionate  parents. 

Oh!  I  shall  then  ’gainst  the  foe  stand  with  breast  of  fearlips  assurance. 
And  if  but  each  man  thought  as  I  think,  then  quickly  would  stand  up 
Might  against  might,  and  of  peace  we  all  should  share  the  enjoyment.” 


86 


h  a  A  ^ .aA  . 


T 


i' 


1  * 


■j 


f 


; 


4 


..  -^-f! 


“«S-M 


% 


I 


I 


r 


r  ^ 

'k 


V 


.rv*/ 


* 


4 


r 


;  s  - 


tepiasftte 

. 


li«is^^ii 

piiisiii^ 


I'i.*V/s>T,  r:^*M-f«i  ■*>*  ‘:Y.‘XK-' 

iSSlili 


Wimmiv^wwWt- 


"■.-I-  Jy.'lf'j 


Ka 


mm 


tesli 


